I realised the mess I’d made and wanted to return to my former wife, with whom I’d spent thirty years—but it was already far too late.
My name is William Hartley, and I live in Stony Stratford, where the days stretch grey and slow along the old canals of Buckinghamshire. I’m fifty-two now, and I have nothing. No wife, no family, no children, no work—just emptiness, like the cold wind whistling through a derelict house. I destroyed everything I had with my own hands, and now I stand amid the ruins of my life, staring into the abyss I dug myself.
My wife, Evelyn, and I shared three decades together. I was the breadwinner—working, providing, while she kept our home warm and steady. I liked knowing she was there, that she belonged to our world alone. But in time, she began to grate on me—her kindness, her little habits, the sound of her voice. Love faded like a fire left untended, lost in the sameness of our days. I thought it normal, inevitable. It was comfortable in that dull, predictable routine. Then life tested me, and I failed.
One evening in a pub, I met Julia. She was thirty-two, twenty years my junior—beautiful, full of life, with mischief in her eyes. She seemed like a dream, a breath of fresh air in my stale existence. We began seeing each other, and soon she was my mistress. For two months, I lived a double life, until the day I realised—I no longer wanted to go home to Evelyn. I loved Julia—or so I believed. I wanted her to be my wife, my second chance.
Gathering my courage, I confessed to Evelyn. She didn’t scream, didn’t throw dishes—just looked at me with hollow eyes and nodded. I told myself she didn’t care, that her feelings had died long ago. Only now do I see how deeply I wounded her. We divorced. Sold the house where our sons, Thomas and Edward, had grown up, where every corner held memories. Julia insisted Evelyn should have nothing. I listened—took my share and bought Julia a spacious flat, while Evelyn took a cramped studio. I didn’t even help her with money. I knew she had no income, no way to survive, but I didn’t care. My sons called me a traitor and cut all ties. I shrugged it off—I had Julia now, a new life, and that was enough.
Julia became pregnant, and I waited for my son with trembling hope. But when he was born, I saw—he looked nothing like me, nor even like her. Friends murmured, my brother warned me, but I refused to listen. Life with Julia turned into a nightmare. I worked myself ragged to keep her in comfort, while the house was a wreck, meals went uncooked, and she vanished for nights, returning reeking of gin. Three years I endured it, until my brother forced me to take a paternity test. The truth struck like a hammer—the boy wasn’t mine.
I divorced Julia the same day. She vanished, taking everything she could carry. I was left alone—no wife, no sons, no strength. Desperate, I went back to Evelyn. Bought flowers, wine, a cake, and crept to her door like a beaten dog. But another man lived there now—her new husband directed me elsewhere. I found her, trembling with foolish hope. She’d found work, remarried, looked happier than I’d ever seen her—alive, glowing, free. She had rebuilt without me.
Later, I begged her in a café, fell to my knees. She looked at me as one might at a pitiful fool, then walked away without a word. Now I see what an idiot I was. Why did I throw away thirty years for a girl who drained me dry? For the illusion of love, only to be discarded? I’m fifty-two, and I’m nothing. My sons won’t answer my calls, my work is gone like sand through fingers. I lost everything that mattered, and I have only myself to blame.
Every night, I dream of Evelyn—her quiet eyes, her voice, the warmth of her. I wake in cold solitude and know—I cast her out, and she has no place for me now. My regret is a brand upon my soul. I’d turn back time if I could, but it’s too late. Far too late. Now I wander the streets of Stony Stratford like a ghost, searching for what I destroyed. I have nothing—only remorse to carry to my grave. I shattered my family, my life, and this weight is mine alone to bear. There’s no undoing it.