Now I’m 54 years old, and I’ve got nothing left.
My name’s Edward. Me and my wife, Margaret, spent thirty years together. The whole time, I thought I was doing my duty—bringing home the bacon while she kept house and looked after the kids. The idea of her getting a job never crossed my mind—figured she was better off at home with the family.
Thought we had a decent life—no fireworks, but mutual respect. But as the years rolled on, I started feeling worn out. Everything became dull, routine. The love faded, leaving just habit. I thought that was normal—until one night changed everything.
That evening, I popped into the pub for a pint and ran into Evelyn. Twenty years younger than me—gorgeous, lively, full of spark. An absolute whirlwind. We got chatting, and like some lovesick schoolboy, I fell head over heels. Secret meet-ups turned into a full-blown affair.
After a few months, I couldn’t keep up the double life. I convinced myself Evelyn was my salvation, my second shot at happiness. Summoned the courage and laid it all out for Margaret.
She listened in silence. No tears, no shouting. Just a quiet “I see.” Back then, I took it as proof she’d checked out too—why else would she let me go so easily? Only now do I realise how much I hurt her.
The divorce was quick. We sold the house. Evelyn insisted Margaret shouldn’t get a penny—claimed we needed a fresh start. Margaret managed to buy a tiny one-bed flat with her share. Me? I cashed in my savings to get us a two-bed place.
Never once did I think about how Margaret would manage—no career, no experience. I was too busy believing my best years were just beginning.
Our grown sons cut ties. To them, I’d betrayed their mum—can’t blame them. Didn’t bother me at the time, though. I was happy. Evelyn was expecting, and I couldn’t wait to meet our baby.
When our son was born, he was a beautiful boy… just didn’t look a bit like me or Evelyn. Mates whispered suspicions, but I brushed them off—how could anything be wrong with my new life?
Trouble was, reality hit hard. I was the only one working, the only one keeping things together. Evelyn lived how she pleased—out all night, coming home drunk, throwing tantrums.
Between exhaustion and stress, my work slipped. Got sacked. Money dried up, debts piled up. Life became a never-ending nightmare.
Three years of that.
Then my brother—who’d never trusted Evelyn—insisted on a DNA test. The results didn’t lie—the boy wasn’t mine.
We split immediately. No arguments.
Just like that, I had nothing—no family, no home, no respect from my kids. Just shame and loneliness.
After a while, I decided to fix things. Bought flowers, a cake, a bottle of wine—planned to beg Margaret’s forgiveness, start over.
Turned up at her old address—stranger answered. She’d moved long ago.
Tracked down her new place. Knocked. A man opened the door. The love of Margaret’s life, apparently.
Turns out, after the divorce, she landed a proper job, met a decent bloke, built a new life. Without me.
Bumped into her once at a café. Tried to talk, bring up the past, ask for another chance.
She looked at me like I was a stranger. Didn’t say a word. Just stood up and walked away.
That’s when it hit me—the weight of every mistake I’d made.
Now I’m 54. No wife. No job. No sons by my side.
I lost everything that mattered. And it’s all my fault.
Sometimes life doesn’t give second chances. And the pain of betraying yourself? That’s the worst of all.
