I realized the mistake I’d made and wanted to return to my ex-wife, whom I’d spent 30 years with, but it was already too late…
My name is Michael Collins, and I live in Bourne, a place where Lincolnshire drags its gray days along winding roads. I’m 52, and I have nothing. No wife, no family, no children, no job—just emptiness, like a cold wind in an abandoned house. I destroyed everything I had, and now I stand amidst the ruins of my life, staring into the abyss I’d dug with my own hands.
Helen and I shared 30 years together. I was the provider—working and supporting the family while she kept the home fires burning. I liked having her at home, not having to share her with the outside world. But over time, she began to irritate me—her care, her habits, her voice. Love faded, dissolved in the routine. I thought it was normal, that this was how it should be. I was comfortable in this gray stability. Then fate threw a challenge my way, one that I failed to endure.
One evening in a pub, I met Julia. She was 32, twenty years younger than me—beautiful, lively, with sparks in her eyes. She seemed like a dream come true, a breath of fresh air in my stagnant life. We began seeing each other, and soon she became my lover. For two months, I led a double life until I realized I didn’t want to return home to Helen. I loved Julia—or so I thought. I wanted her to become my wife, my new destiny.
Gathering my courage, I confessed to Helen. She didn’t scream, she didn’t break dishes—she just looked at me with empty eyes and nodded. I decided she didn’t care either, that her feelings had long since died. Only now do I see the depth of the hurt I caused her. We divorced. We sold the house where our sons had grown up, where every corner held memories of the past. Julia insisted I leave nothing to Helen. I obeyed—took my share and bought Julia a spacious two-bedroom flat. Helen took a tiny one-bed, and I didn’t even help her with money. I knew she had nothing to live on, that she didn’t have a job, but I didn’t care. My sons, James and Daniel, turned their backs on me—called me a traitor and severed all ties. Back then, I brushed it off: I had Julia, a new life, and that was enough.
Julia became pregnant, and I awaited my son with anticipation. But when he was born, I noticed the boy resembled neither me nor her. Friends whispered, my brother warned me, but I pushed those thoughts aside. Life with Julia turned into a nightmare. I worked myself to exhaustion, supporting the home and child, while she demanded money, disappeared at night, returned drunk, reeking of alcohol. At home—chaos, no food, arguments over trivial things. I lost my job—exhaustion and anger took their toll. Three years I lived in this nightmare until my brother made me take a DNA test. The result hit like a hammer: the child wasn’t mine.
I divorced Julia the same day I discovered the truth. She vanished, taking everything she could carry. I was left alone—no wife, no sons, no strength. I decided to return to Helen. I bought flowers, wine, a cake, and went to her like a whipped dog. But there was another man in her home—the new owner gave me her new address. Trembling with hope, I went there. A man opened the door. Helen had found a job, remarried a colleague, looked happy—alive, blossoming, as I’d never seen her. She’d built a new life without me.
Later, I met her in a café. I fell to my knees, pleading for her to return. She looked at me like a pitiful fool and left without a word. Now I see what an idiot I was. Why did I leave the wife I’d spent 30 years with? What did I exchange my family for—a young woman who drained me and left? For the illusion I mistakenly believed was love? I’m 52, and I’m nothing. My sons don’t answer my calls, work slipped away like sand through my fingers. I lost everything that was dear to me, and it’s all my fault.
Every night, I dream of Helen—her calm eyes, her voice, her warmth. I wake up in cold solitude, understanding: I drove her out of my life. She doesn’t wait for me, won’t forgive me, and I’m not worthy of forgiveness. My mistake is a brand that burns my soul. I wish I could turn back time, but it’s too late. Far too late. Now I wander the streets of Bourne, like a ghost seeking what I destroyed. I have nothing—only regret that will stay with me until the end of my days. I ruined my family, my life, and I carry this burden alone, knowing that nothing can be fixed.
