I understood 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, rain-soaked town of Shropshire, where the grey days stretch endlessly over the fields. I am fifty-two years old and have nothingno wife, no family, no children, no workonly emptiness, like the cold wind whistling through an abandoned house. I destroyed everything I once held dear, and now I stand amidst the ruins of my life, staring into the abyss I dug with my own hands.
For thirty years, I walked beside my wife, Margaret. I was the provider, working tirelessly to keep the household afloat while she tended to our home. I liked having her there, safe and unchallenged by the world outside. But in time, I grew irritated by her care, her habits, the sound of her voice. Love faded, worn thin by routine. I told myself it was natural, that this was simply how life unfolded. I was comfortable in that dull, grey stability. Then fate tested me, and I failed.
One evening, at the pub, I met Lucy. She was thirty-twotwenty years my juniorbright, vivacious, with a gleam in her eye. She seemed like a dream come true, a gust of fresh air in my stagnant life. We began meeting in secret, and within months, she became my mistress. For two years, I led a double life until I realised I no longer wished to return home to Margaret. I was in love with Lucyor so I believed. I wanted her as my wife, my new beginning.
I gathered my courage and confessed to Margaret. She did not scream or smash platesonly stared at me with hollow eyes and nodded. I thought she, too, had long since stopped caring. Now I see the pain I caused her. We divorced. We sold the house where our children, Thomas and William, had grown up, where every corner held memories. Lucy insisted I leave Margaret nothing. I obeyedtook my share and bought a spacious flat for Lucy. Margaret was left with a cramped one-bedroom, and I offered no help. I knew she had no means to survive, no job, but I did not care. My sons called me a traitor and cut all ties. At the time, it didnt matterI had Lucy, a new life, and I thought it was enough.
Lucy fell pregnant, and I awaited our child eagerly. But when the boy was born, I noticed he bore no resemblance to meor even to her. Friends whispered; my brother warned me. I dismissed it. Life with Lucy became unbearable. I worked myself to exhaustion, supporting her, the child, while she demanded money, vanished at night, returned drunk and reeking of spirits. Our home was chaosno food, constant quarrels over trifles. I lost my job, worn down by anger and exhaustion. For three years, I endured this nightmare until my brother persuaded me to take a paternity test. The result struck me like a hammerthe boy was not mine.
I divorced Lucy the same day I learned the truth. She vanished, taking whatever she could carry. I was aloneno wife, no children, no strength left. Then I decided to return to Margaret. I bought flowers, wine, a cake, and went to her like a repentant dog. But in her little flat lived anotherthe new owner gave me her address. I arrived trembling with hope. A man answered the door. Margaret had found work, remarried a colleague, and seemed happyalive, radiant, as I had never seen her. She had rebuilt her life without me.
Later, I found her in a café. I fell to my knees and begged her to return. She looked at me as though I were a pitiful fool and walked away without a word. Now I see the fool I was. Why did I leave the woman who stood by me for thirty years? Why trade my family for a girl who drained me and cast me aside? For an illusion, for blind faith in love? I am fifty-two, and I am nothing. My sons do not answer my calls, my job slipped through my fingers like sand. I lost all that was dear to me, and I am the only one to blame.
Every night, I dream of Margarether calm eyes, her voice, her warmth. I wake to the cold grip of solitude and understand: I was the one who pushed her away. She does not wait for me, 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. Now I wander the streets of Shropshire like 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 bear this weight alone, knowing nothing can make it right.
