**Loneliness in Marriage**
James and I had been together for twenty years. We’d had our ups and downs, but I’d never regretted a single day with him.
I always tried to be a good wife—obliging, agreeable, never arguing. What else could I do? A woman’s meant to be wise, isn’t she? Otherwise, she’ll end up alone. And, let’s face it, there’s no shortage of divorced women circling like seagulls round a chip shop. I forgave his affairs, twice. Once, he even tried to leave, but I told him I couldn’t live without him. He stayed, frightened off by the drama.
He liked a drink—who doesn’t? But he worked, brought in *some* money. Enough, anyway. I worked two jobs myself, so we scraped by.
When our daughter Lily was born and I was on maternity leave, James got worse. He’d moan about spending, tell me to cut back. But once I returned to work, I bought what I wanted—for Lily and me.
One morning, he stumbled in, not entirely sober. When I asked where he’d been, he shouted and raised his hand. I stayed quiet. A wife should understand—a man needs time away from family.
Then he didn’t just *raise* his hand. Soon, I wore sunglasses to hide bruises, blaming them on rogue cupboard doors.
It kept happening. Doctors stitching my broken nose and ribs told me to report him. I couldn’t. James was my husband, the man I loved. Besides, if I did, he’d leave—and Lily needed a father.
Never mind that he barely noticed her. He’d wanted a son. A second child never came, though I would’ve loved another.
When Lily grew up, she begged me to leave. Most kids love their parents no matter what, but Lily was terrified of him—he’d lashed out at her too. James was the head of the house, so we obeyed. Avoiding punishment wasn’t always possible.
Years passed. I turned forty. Lily moved in with her boyfriend. James grew quieter, barely speaking to me. I adjusted, loving him silently, never glancing at other men. I did everything to keep him content.
Then one evening, he came home early, pacing like a man with bad news.
“James, what’s wrong?” I ventured.
He hesitated.
“I’ve had enough. I’m leaving.”
The floor might as well have vanished. I gripped the chair.
“Leaving? What about us? Our family?”
“What family?” he snapped. “Look at you! I’ve wasted my life tolerating you. Finally, I’ll live for myself—with a woman who deserves me.”
“There’s someone else?” Tears spilled.
“Obviously. You’re a wreck—I’m still a catch. Any woman’d fancy me. But *you*? I’m sick of you.”
He grabbed a bag and left, shouting over his shoulder, “I’ll get my things tomorrow!”
Just like that, twenty years ended.
Later, I learned he’d had a mistress for *three years*. That’s who he’d gone to.
Today’s my fiftieth birthday. It’s been five years since the divorce, and I’m still piecing myself together.
James fought for every spoon in court, took everything but the flat (thank God Mum left it to me). The whole ordeal felt like a bad dream—I couldn’t believe it was real.
How could this happen? I did *everything* for him!
Now, I understand. You can’t live someone else’s life. You can’t forgive unrepentant cruelty. You can’t shrink yourself, beg for scraps of affection, endure abuse. And worst of all—I put Lily second. Now she barely speaks to me, resentful of the childhood she lost.
What a waste. All that love, all that effort—gone.
The clock ticks loudly. Another birthday alone. But at least I know now: whatever time I’ve left, I’ll live it happily, peacefully—not bending to someone else’s moods.
A knock at the door. James stood there, grinning like nothing had happened, holding a sad bunch of daisies.
“Hiya. I’m back for good. Realised—you’re the best. Let me in?”
“No. Go away. Don’t come back.”
I shut the door. And for the first time, I knew—I was ready to leave the loneliness behind and start anew.
*P.S. This is a true story—a friend told me.*
*So, was the wife right? How should a woman behave in marriage?*
