I came to understand my mistakes and wished to return to my ex-wife after thirty years, but it was far too late
My name is Edward Whitmore, and I live in the quiet town of Stratford-upon-Avon, where the misty mornings stretch lazily across the fields. At fifty-two, I have nothing leftno wife, no family, no children, no workjust emptiness, like the cold wind howling through an abandoned house. I destroyed everything I once held dear, and now I stand amidst the ruins of my own making, staring into the chasm I dug with my own hands.
For thirty years, I shared my life with my wife, Margaret. I was the breadwinner, working day and night to provide, while she tended to our home. I liked having her there, safe and unseen by the world outside. But over time, I grew irritated by her care, her habits, even her voice. Love faded, swallowed by routine. I told myself this was normal, that this was how life was meant to be. I was comfortable in that dull, grey stabilityuntil fate threw me a challenge I could not resist.
One evening, at a pub, I met Catherine. She was thirty-two, twenty years my juniorbright, beautiful, alive in a way I had forgotten. She felt like a dream come true, a breath of fresh air in my stagnant life. We began seeing each other, and within months, she was my mistress. For two years, I lived a double life, until one day it struck meI no longer wished to go home to Margaret. I had fallen for Catherine, or so I believed. I wanted her to be my wife, my new beginning.
I gathered my courage and confessed to Margaret. She did not scream or throw platesshe simply looked at me with hollow eyes and nodded. I thought she didnt care, that her feelings had long since withered. Now, I see the pain I caused. We divorced. We sold the house where our children, Thomas and William, had grown up, where every corner held memories of a life now lost. Catherine insisted I leave Margaret nothing. I obeyedI took my share and bought a spacious flat for Catherine. Margaret was left with a cramped one-bedroom, and I gave her no help, though I knew she had no income, no means to live. Our sons turned from me, called me a betrayer, and severed all ties. At the time, it didnt matterI had Catherine, a new life, and I thought it was enough.
Catherine became pregnant, and I awaited our child with joy. But when the boy was born, he bore no resemblance to meor to her. Friends whispered, my brother warned me, but I pushed the doubts aside. Life with Catherine grew unbearable. I worked myself to exhaustion, supporting the household, the child, while she demanded money, vanished at night, returned drunk, smelling of gin. At home, there was only chaosno food, no peace, endless quarrels over trifles. I lost my jobweariness and rage took their toll. For three years, I endured the nightmare, until my brother convinced me to take a paternity test. The result struck like a hammerthe child was not mine.
I divorced Catherine the same day I learned the truth. She disappeared, taking whatever she could carry. Alonewithout wife, without sons, without strengthI decided to return to Margaret. I bought flowers, wine, cake, went to her like a remorseful dog. But another man lived in her tiny flat nowthe new owner gave me her address. Trembling with hope, I went to her. A man answered the door. Margaret had found work, remarried a colleague, and seemed happyalive, radiant, in a way I had never seen her before. She had rebuilt her life without me.
Later, I found her in a tearoom. I fell to my knees, begged her to come back. She looked at me as if I were a pitiful fool, then walked away without a word. Now I see the fool I was. Why did I leave the woman I had spent thirty years with? Why did I trade my family for a young woman who drained me dry and cast me aside? For an illusion, for blind faith in love? At fifty-two, I am empty. My sons do not answer my calls, my job slipped through my fingers like sand. I lost everything I cherished, and I have no one to blame but myself.
Every night, I dream of Margarether calm eyes, her voice, her warmth. I wake to the chill of solitude and realise: it was I who pushed her from my life. She will not wait for me, she will not forgive me, and I do not deserve forgiveness. My mistakea brand that sears my soul. I wish I could turn back time, but it is far too late. Too late. Now I wander the streets of Stratford, a ghost searching for what I destroyed. I have nothingonly regret, which will follow me to the grave. I ruined my family, my life, and I carry this weight alone, knowing there is no undoing what has been done.
