I realized the mistakes I’d made and wanted to return to my ex-wife, with whom I’d shared 30 years of my life, but it was already too late…
My name is Michael Smith, and I live in a small town in England. I’m 52 and have nothing—no wife, no family, no children, no job—just emptiness, like a cold wind in a deserted house. I destroyed everything I’d ever had, and now I stand on the ruins of my life, looking into the void I created myself.
Helen and I spent 30 years together. I was the breadwinner, providing for the family while she maintained our home. I liked having her around, not having to share her with the outside world. But over time, her care, her habits, her voice began to annoy me. The love faded, dissolving into routine. I thought that was normal. I felt secure in this dull stability. Then life tested me, and I failed.
One evening in a pub, I met Julia. She was 32, twenty years younger than me—beautiful, vibrant, with a sparkle in her eyes. She seemed like a dream come true, a breath of fresh air in my stagnant life. We started seeing each other, and soon she became my mistress. For two months, I led a double life until I realized I didn’t want to return home to Helen anymore. I thought I loved Julia—or so it seemed. I wanted her to be my new wife, my new fate.
I gathered the courage to confess to Helen. She didn’t shout or break dishes—she just looked at me with empty eyes and nodded. I assumed she didn’t care either, that her feelings had died long ago. Now I see how deeply I hurt her. We divorced and sold the flat where our sons grew up, each corner filled with memories of the past. Julia insisted I leave Helen with nothing. I obliged—took my share and bought Julia a spacious two-bedroom flat. Helen got a tiny one-bedroom place, and I didn’t even offer her financial help. I knew she had nothing to live on, no job, but I didn’t care. My sons, James and Alex, turned away from me—calling me a traitor, cutting all ties. At the time, I brushed it off: I had Julia, a new life, and that was enough.
Julia became pregnant, and I awaited our child with anticipation. But when he was born, I noticed he didn’t look like either of us. Friends whispered, my brother warned me, but I pushed those thoughts aside. Life with Julia became a nightmare. I worked until exhausted, supporting the household and the child, while she demanded money, disappeared at night, returning drunk, reeking of alcohol. The house was a mess, no food, constant arguments over trifles. I lost my job—fatigue and anger took their toll. For three years, I endured this nightmare until my brother pressured me to take a DNA test. The result was like a hammer blow: the child wasn’t mine.
I divorced Julia the same day I learned the truth. She disappeared, taking everything she could. I was left alone—no wife, no sons, no energy. So, I decided to go back to Helen. I bought flowers, wine, cake, and went to her like a beaten dog. But another man answered the door at her flat. He gave me her new address. I went there, trembling with hope. A man opened the door. Helen had found a job, married a colleague, and looked happy—vibrant, flourishing in a way I’d never seen her before. She had built a new life without me.
Later, I saw her in a café. I fell to my knees, begged her to come back. She looked at me like a pathetic fool and left without a word. Now I see what a fool I was. Why did I leave the wife with whom I’d spent 30 years? For what did I trade my family for a young woman who drained everything from me and left? For the illusion of love I wrongly believed in? I’m 52, and I’m nothing. My sons don’t answer my calls, and my job slipped through my fingers like sand. I’ve lost everything that mattered to me, and it’s all my fault.
Every night I dream of Helen—her calm eyes, her voice, her warmth. I wake up in cold loneliness, understanding I’ve pushed her out of my life. She doesn’t wait for me, won’t forgive me, and I don’t deserve forgiveness. My mistake is a scar that burns my soul. I wish I could turn back time, but it’s too late. Far too late. Now I wander the streets like a ghost, searching for what I destroyed myself. I have nothing left—only regret, which will haunt me for the rest of my days. I destroyed my family, my life, and I bear this burden alone, knowing I can never fix it.
