I realized the mess I had made and wanted to go back to my ex-wife, with whom I had spent 30 years, but it was too late…
My name is Michael Walker. I live in the small town of Ivybridge, located in the heart of Devon, England. I’m 52, and I have nothing. No wife, no family, no children, no job—just emptiness, like a cold wind blowing through an abandoned house. I dismantled everything I once had, and now I stand on the ruins of my life, looking into the abyss I carved with my own hands.
My wife, Helen, and I shared 30 years together. I was the breadwinner—working hard to support the family, while she kept the home fires burning. I enjoyed knowing she was at home, not having to share her with the outside world. But over time, she started to irritate me—her care, her habits, her voice. Love faded, dissolved into the routine. I thought it was normal, that it was how things were supposed to be. It was comfortable, this grey stability. Then fate challenged me, and I failed to overcome it.
One evening at a pub, I met Julia. She was 32, twenty years younger than me—beautiful, vibrant, with sparks in her eyes. She seemed like the embodiment of a dream, a breath of fresh air in my stale life. We started seeing each other, and soon she became my mistress. For two months, I lived a double life until I realized: I didn’t want to go back home to Helen. I fell in love with Julia—or so I thought. I wanted her to be my wife, my new destiny.
I gathered the courage to confess to Helen. She didn’t shout or throw things; she just looked at me with empty eyes and nodded. I thought she didn’t care, that her feelings had died long ago. Only now do I see how deeply I wounded her. We divorced. We sold the house where our sons grew up, where every corner held memories of the past. Julia insisted that I leave Helen with nothing. I obeyed—took my share and bought Julia a spacious two-bedroom flat. Helen got herself a tiny one-bedroom, and I didn’t even help her with money. I knew she had nothing to live on, no job, but I didn’t care. Our sons, Ethan and James, disowned me—calling me a traitor and cutting off all ties. At the time, I brushed it off: I had Julia, a new life, and that seemed enough.
Julia got pregnant, and I awaited the birth of a son with anticipation. But when he was born, I noticed: the boy resembled neither me nor her. Friends whispered, my brother warned, but I dismissed those thoughts. Life with Julia turned into a nightmare. I worked myself into exhaustion, supported the home and child, while she demanded money, disappeared at nights, and returned home drunk. The house was a mess, there was no food, and trivial quarrels erupted. I lost my job—exhaustion and anger took their toll. For three years, I lived in this nightmare until my brother urged me to get a DNA test. The result hit me like a sledgehammer: the child wasn’t mine.
I divorced Julia the same day I learned the truth. She vanished, taking everything she could. I was left alone—no wife, no sons, no strength. Then I decided to return to Helen. I bought flowers, wine, cake, and went to her place like a defeated dog. But another man already lived in that small flat—a new owner gave me her new address. I went there, trembling with hope. A man opened the door. Helen had found a job, married a colleague, looked happy—alive and radiant, as I had never seen her before. She had built a new life without me.
Later on, I encountered her in a café. I fell to my knees, begged her to come back. She looked at me as if I were a pathetic fool and left without a word. Now I see how foolish I was. Why did I leave the wife with whom I shared 30 years? For what did I trade my family for a young woman who drained me and left? For the illusion that I mistakenly called love? I’m 52, and I’m nothing. My sons don’t answer my calls, work slipped through my fingers like sand. I lost everything I held dear, and I have only myself to blame.
Every night, I dream of Helen—her calm eyes, her voice, her warmth. I wake up to cold solitude, realizing I drove her away myself. She doesn’t wait for me, won’t forgive me, and I’m undeserving of forgiveness. My mistake is like a brand that scorches my soul. I wish I could turn back time, but it’s too late. Far too late. Now, I wander the streets of Ivybridge like a ghost, searching for what I destroyed myself. I have nothing—only the regret that will stay with me for the rest of my days. I ruined my family, my life, and this burden I carry alone, knowing I can never fix it.
