I never loved my wife, and I told her so more than once. It wasn’t her fault—we got along fine enough.
My name’s Oliver Whitaker, and I live in Coventry, where the Midlands wear its industrial past like a tired old coat. I never loved my wife, Emily, and I’d flung the truth in her face more times than I could count. She didn’t deserve it—never made a scene, never nagged, always gentle, caring, practically a saint. But my heart stayed as cold as the Thames in January. No love there—just the gnawing guilt of it.
Every morning, I woke with the same thought: leave. I dreamed of finding a woman who’d set me alight, who I could breathe in like fresh air. But fate played a cruel joke, turning everything upside down so fast I still haven’t caught my breath. Emily was comfortable, like an old armchair. She ran the house perfectly, looked the sort who turned heads on the street, and my mates would clap me on the back, saying, “Blimey, where’d you find her, you lucky sod?” I never understood why she stuck around—just an ordinary bloke, nothing special, yet she loved me like I was her whole world. How does that even happen?
Her love smothered me. Worse still was the thought: if I left, someone else would take her. Someone smarter, handsomer, richer—someone who’d see what I couldn’t. Imagining her in another man’s arms made my vision swim with rage. She was mine—even if I never loved her. That possessiveness was stronger than me, stronger than sense. But could I spend my life with someone who left my heart silent? I thought I could. I was wrong. A storm was brewing inside me, and I couldn’t hold it back.
“I’ll tell her tomorrow,” I decided, climbing into bed. Over breakfast, I scraped together what little courage I had. “Em, sit down. We need to talk,” I began, meeting her calm gaze. “Of course, love. What’s wrong?” she replied, soft as ever. “Imagine if we got divorced. I leave, we go our separate ways…” She laughed like I’d told a joke. “What’s got into you? Is this some game?” “Listen, I’m serious,” I cut in. “Alright, imagined it. Now what?” she asked, still smiling. “Tell me honestly—would you find someone else if I left?” She froze. “Oliver, what’s this about? Why are you even asking?” Her voice had a tremor now. “Because I don’t love you. Never have,” I blurted, like a punch to the gut.
Emily went pale. “What? You can’t mean that.” “I want to leave, but the thought of you with someone else—it drives me mad,” I said, my voice shaking. She was quiet, then spoke with sad wisdom: “I won’t find better, don’t worry. Go. I’ll stay alone.” “Promise?” I choked out. “Of course,” she nodded, eyes steady. “Wait—but where would I go?” I stammered. “No place lined up?” she asked, surprised. “No, we’ve been together forever. Guess I’ll have to stick around,” I muttered, feeling the ground tilt. “Don’t fret,” Emily said. “After the divorce, we’ll sell the house, split it.” “Really? Didn’t think you’d make it easy. Why?” I asked, stunned. “Because I love you. When you love someone, you don’t cage them.”
Months passed. We divorced. Then the rumours reached me: Emily had lied. She’d found someone else—tall, confident, with a smile that could charm birds from trees. The flat she’d inherited from her gran? Never part of the deal. I was left with nothing—no home, no family, no faith left in people. The betrayal hit like a sucker punch, and I still hear her voice: “I’ll stay alone.” A lie. Cold, calculated, and I fell for it like an idiot.
How do I trust women now? No clue. Life with her was easy but hollow, and now even that’s gone. I’m sat in a rented room, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation. Her calm, her words—all a mask. My mates say, “You’ve done this to yourself, mate. What did you expect?” And they’re right. I never loved her, but I wanted to keep her like a trophy. And she left, leaving me drowning in the loneliness I feared most. Maybe this is my reckoning—for the coldness, the selfishness, for never valuing her heart. Now I’m alone, and the quiet cuts deeper than her leaving. What do you make of it? Honestly, I don’t know who’s the bigger fool—me or her.