I never loved my wife and told her so more than once. It wasn’t her fault—we lived relatively well.
My name is Andrew Wilson, and I live in Reading, where the historical essence lingers in the air amidst the everyday dullness. I never loved my wife, Emily, and I often threw that harsh truth in her face. She didn’t deserve it—never caused a scene, never reproached me, always remained tender, caring, almost saintly. Yet, my heart stayed as cold as ice on the Thames in winter. There was no love, and it gnawed at me from within.
Every morning, I woke up with one thought: to leave. I dreamt of finding a woman who would ignite a fire within me, who I could breathe in. But fate played a cruel trick, flipping everything upside down so that I still can’t find my footing. Being with Emily was convenient, like sinking into an old armchair. She managed the house flawlessly, looked so stunning that passersby would turn their heads, and friends would pat me on the back saying, “Where’d you find such a gem, you lucky guy?” Even I didn’t understand how I’d earned her loyalty. Just an ordinary bloke with nothing special, yet she loved me as if I were her whole world. How could that be?
Her love suffocated me. Even worse was the thought: if I left, someone else would win her over. Someone more successful, more handsome, wealthier—someone who would appreciate what I couldn’t see. When I imagined her in someone else’s embrace, rage clouded my mind. She was mine, even if I never loved her. This sense of ownership was more dominant than common sense. But could I spend my whole life with someone to whom my heart was silent? I thought I could, but I was wrong—a storm brewed within me that I couldn’t contain.
“Tomorrow, I’ll tell her everything,” I decided as I went to bed. The next morning, gathering the last shreds of courage, I said at breakfast, “Emily, sit down, we need to talk.” I looked into her calm eyes. “Sure, darling, what’s going on?” she replied with her usual softness. “Imagine we’re divorcing. I’m leaving, we’ll live separately…” She laughed, as if I was joking: “What strange fantasies! Is this a game?” “Listen further, I’m serious,” I cut her off. “Alright, I imagined it. And what?” she asked, still smiling. “Honestly, would you find someone else if I left?” She paused. “Andrew, what’s wrong with you? Why would you even think about that?” her voice now tinged with concern. “Because I don’t love you and never have,” I blurted out, as if it were a blow.
Emily turned pale. “What? You must be joking. I don’t understand.” “I want to leave, but the thought of you with someone else drives me mad,” my voice shook with tension. She remained silent for a moment, then quietly, with a sort of sad wisdom, said, “I won’t find anyone better than you, don’t worry. Leave, I’ll stay alone.” “Promise?” I blurted. “Of course,” she nodded, looking me in the eye. “Wait, but where do I go?” I was at a loss. “You don’t have anywhere?” she was surprised. “No, we’ve spent our lives together. Looks like I’ll have to stick around,” I mumbled, feeling the ground slipping from under my feet. “Don’t worry,” Emily replied. “After the divorce, we’ll split the house into two smaller ones.” “Really? I didn’t expect you to help me like this. Why?” I asked, stunned. “Because I love you. When you love, you don’t hold on by force,” her words sounded like a verdict.
Several months passed. We divorced. Then, news reached me: Emily had lied. She found someone new—tall, confident, with a warm smile. The house, inherited from her grandmother, she never intended to split. I was left with nothing—no home, no family, no faith in people. The betrayal revealed itself like a stab in the back, her words still echoing: “I’ll stay alone.” A lie. Cold, calculated deceit, and I believed it, like a fool.
How can I trust women now? I don’t know. My life with her was comfortable but empty, and now even that’s gone. I sit in a rented room, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation. Her composure, her words—all were but a mask. Friends say, “You brought this on yourself, Andrew, what did you expect?” And they’re right. I didn’t love her, but I wanted to keep her like an object. Yet, she left, leaving me in the solitude I so dreaded. Perhaps this is my payment—for the coldness, the selfishness, for not valuing her heart. Now I’m alone, and the silence around cuts deeper than her departure. What do you think of my actions? I don’t even know who the bigger fool is—me or her.
