I realized the mess I’d made and wanted to go back to my ex-wife, the one I spent 30 years with, but it was already too late…
My name is Michael Collins, and I live in a small town in the English countryside, where the dreary days drag along the riverbanks. I’m 52, and I have nothing. No wife, no family, no children, no job—just emptiness, like a cold wind in an abandoned house. I single-handedly destroyed everything I had, and now I stand in the ruins of my life, staring into the abyss I dug with my own hands.
My wife, Helen, and I spent 30 years together. I was the breadwinner, working and supporting the family, while she kept the home fires burning. I liked that she was at home and that I didn’t have to share her with the outside world. Over time, though, everything about her—the care, her habits, her voice—began to irritate me. Love faded, dissolving into routine. I thought it was normal, that it was just how things were. I felt comfortable in that grey stability. Then, fate threw a challenge at me that I failed to pass.
One evening, I met Julia in a pub. She was 32, twenty years my junior—beautiful, lively, with sparks in her eyes. She seemed like a dream come true, a breath of fresh air in my stale life. We started seeing each other, and she quickly became my lover. For two months, I lived a double life until I realized: I didn’t want to go back home to Helen. I thought I loved Julia—or at least it seemed so. I wanted her to be my wife, my new destiny.
I gathered the courage to confess to Helen. She didn’t scream or throw things—just looked at me with empty eyes and nodded. I assumed she didn’t care either, that her feelings had died long ago. Only now do I see how deeply I hurt her. We divorced, sold the house where our sons had grown up, where every corner held memories of the past. Julia insisted I leave Helen with nothing. I obeyed—took my share and bought Julia a spacious two-bedroom flat. Helen took a tiny studio, and I didn’t even help her financially. I knew she had nothing to live on, no job, but I didn’t care. My sons, Thomas and Daniel, turned their backs on me—called me a traitor and severed all ties. I brushed it off: I had Julia, a new life, and that felt enough.
Julia got pregnant, and I awaited the arrival of my son with great anticipation. But when he was born, I noticed: the boy resembled neither me nor her. Friends whispered, my brother warned me, but I dismissed those thoughts. Life with Julia turned into hell. I worked to exhaustion, supporting the household and the child, while she demanded money, disappeared at night, returning drunk and reeking of alcohol. The house was a mess, no food, silly arguments. I lost my job—fatigue and anger took their toll. For three years, I lived in this nightmare until my brother forced me to get a DNA test. The result hit like a hammer: the child wasn’t mine.
I divorced Julia the same day I found out the truth. She left, taking everything she could with her. I was left alone—no wife, no sons, no strength. Then, I decided to return to Helen. I bought flowers, wine, a cake, and went to her like a beaten dog. But another man was already living in her studio—the 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, and looked happy—alive, flourishing, like I had never seen her before. She had built a new life without me.
Later, I met her in a café. I fell to my knees, begging her to come back. She looked at me like I was a pitiful fool and walked away, not saying a word. Now, I see how foolish I’d been. Why did I leave the wife I spent 30 years with? What was worth trading a family for a young girl who sucked everything out of me and discarded me? For an illusion of love that was never real? I’m 52, and I’ve become nothing. My sons don’t answer my calls, work slipped through my fingers like sand. I’ve lost everything dear 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 solitude, realizing I was the one who drove her away. She isn’t waiting for me, won’t forgive me, and I am undeserving of forgiveness. My mistake is a brand that burns my soul. I wish I could turn back time, but it’s too late. Much too late. Now I wander the streets like a ghost, searching for what I destroyed myself. I have nothing—only regret that will stay with me until the end of my days. I demolished my family, my life, and I bear this burden alone, knowing there’s nothing to be fixed.
