My married life lay in ruins.
At 60, with my husband now 66, we stood on the brink of divorce. After what I believed were 35 years of a strong union, everything had turned upside down. I, Evelyn, and my husband, Victor, had seemed to find harmony in our quiet life in a small town in the Midlands. Yet in the blink of an eye, it all shattered, leaving me on the threshold of loneliness, my heart broken by betrayal.
Victor and I had spent over three decades together. It began on the eve of the New Year. As usual, our children had gone off to celebrate with friends, leaving us with their cat. Victor, citing boredom and the long holiday break, decided to visit the neighbouring town—ostensibly to pay respects at his parents’ graves and to see his sister. I raised no objection; such trips were routine for him. He left, and I stayed home, unaware this would mark the beginning of the end.
A week later, he returned, but something about him was different. His gaze was distant, his words cold. Another week passed before he stunned me with his revelation: he wanted a divorce. “I can’t go on like this,” he said. “There’s a woman who can save me.” Dumbstruck, I replied it was his choice, though inside, my world crumbled. Later, I learned the truth: a woman he had courted 40 years earlier had found him online. They had begun exchanging messages. She lived in that very town he had visited, and his supposed trip to see his sister was merely a ruse to meet her.
He spent three days in her company. According to him, they understood each other instantly. She was a confident widow with a three-bedroom flat, a country house, and several cars. Victor confessed he had poured out his troubles—how he felt unneeded, how his health was failing. Calling herself a healer, she promised to “cure” him. Worse still, she claimed to practise alternative medicine, boasting she could detect early-stage cancer and commune with spirits. Her promises rang like a fairy tale: if Victor divorced me and married her, she would gift him a country home and a car, even restore his health. Thus began the nightmare.
Victor demanded I rush to the registry office and consent to the divorce. I refused, telling him I wouldn’t dance to his tune. So he filed the petition himself. I only learned of the hearing by chance, when I sought answers. In court, I read his claims in disbelief: he swore we had not shared a bed in 15 years, and for the last 6, we had lived entirely apart. It was an outrageous lie! I contested every accusation, yet as I await trial, I feel the ground slipping from beneath me.
His contempt is unbearable. He looks at me as if I’m a stranger. But what of this 65-year-old “healer” who tore our family apart? What has she done to my husband? Victor told her he drank three fingers of whisky daily, despite having only one kidney. Her reply? “It’s nothing to fret over.” Madness! When I begged him to reconsider, he declared we had lived as mere neighbours, our marriage long dead.
So ended my life as a wife. To face solitude at 60 is an unbearable weight. For 35 years, I had grown used to Victor—his ways, our shared days. Yet it seems he never truly valued what we had. Now I stand before the unknown, heart aching, wondering: how does one go on when all that was cherished has turned to dust?
