In a quiet riverside town along the Thames, where life moves at a measured pace and family dramas unfold behind closed doors, my story with my ex-wife and my new spouse has left my heart in tatters. My name was Edward, and I thought I’d made the right choice by leaving behind endless quarrels, but now a longing for the past haunts me.
My former wife, Margaret, always found reason for a row. I was no saint—I had my faults—but her nagging drove me to distraction. She scolded me for everything: my exhaustion after work, the time I spent with our ten-year-old son, William, taking him to football matches or the fairground. To me, it was joy; to her, it was neglect. She claimed I played the fun parent while she bore the burden of discipline. I grew weary of her control and accusations.
One day, I’d had enough. After yet another argument, I packed my things and left. I rented a flat nearby so William could visit whenever he wished. It seemed the only solution—Margaret and I no longer understood each other, and living together had become unbearable. Three months later, she filed for divorce. I tried to piece myself back together, relishing the quiet, the freedom from shouting and blame. It was like breathing fresh air after suffocation.
Six months passed. William mentioned in passing that a “gentleman” sometimes visited his mother. I brushed it off, but unease twisted inside me. I decided it was time to move on. I met women, but nothing serious came of it—I wanted stability, a family. Then I met Eleanor—young, lovely, without children or a past to weigh her down. She never dictated my actions or staged scenes. I thought life with her would be different, simpler.
We married quietly—no grand affair, as I’d been wed before. Life with Eleanor was peaceful; I even considered children. Somewhere, silently, I wanted to prove to Margaret that I could be happy without her, that I’d found someone better.
Then Margaret called—William had taken a football to the nose at practice. I rushed to the hospital and saw her for the first time in ages. She looked striking, just as I remembered her when we first met. She spoke calmly, without the old bitterness. Her perfume lingered in the car afterward, and something clenched in my chest.
William’s injury was worse than it seemed—his septum needed surgery. I saw Margaret more often, discussing his care. One evening, out of habit, I stepped into their home, removed my shoes, put the kettle on. Only when I couldn’t find my old mug did I realise—this wasn’t my house anymore. I was just dropping them off.
Eleanor was Margaret’s opposite—serene, tidy, an excellent cook. We never argued, and our nights were flawless. But her coolness gnawed at me. She didn’t laugh at my jokes, didn’t share my delight in films. Her emotions were muted, just beyond reach. Life with her was like a showroom flat—perfect, yet hollow.
I caught myself messaging Margaret constantly, pretending it was about William. The truth? I ached for our home, her sharp laughter, the way she sparred with me until we were both breathless. The quarrels faded from memory; only the warmth remained.
Once, collecting William, I met her new man—older, greying, shorter than me. I nodded at his greeting, but inside, I seethed. This stranger was in my house, sleeping in my bed! I lost control, shouting at Margaret to keep him away from my son.
“Would you have me take William to *his* place instead?” she shot back. “Or send our boy to you, to sleep between you and Eleanor? Buy him a bed first, then dictate who I see!”
We screamed like the old days. William, overwhelmed, shut himself in his room. Margaret stalked to the kitchen, muttering. I followed, and without thinking, pulled her close. My lips brushed her neck. She gasped but shoved me away.
“What are you doing? Go—back to your *wife*!” she snapped, her eyes blazing.
I left, the ground crumbling beneath me. At home, Eleanor waited—flawless, distant. She’d done nothing wrong, yet I couldn’t pretend. I longed for Margaret, for her fire, for mornings when she’d wear my shirts, for evenings awaiting our favourite show’s new season.
I left Margaret believing it was best. Now I know—my home is where she and William are. I want to return, but how? I have a wife who doesn’t deserve betrayal, and an ex whose flame still burns me. Lost, my heart pulls me back—to what’s real.
