I was married to a miserly woman. And then, I went and made a mess of things myself…
One mistake after another—now I don’t know how to fix any of it.
The divorce was my decision. Five years have passed, and I still remember that day—like a chunk of flesh ripped clean off. Everything was too much: the marriage itself, the slow crumbling of it, the way I had to piece myself back together afterward. But you know what? I’m not even sure that was the hardest part. The hardest part came later—when I became the very thing I swore I’d never be.
Her name was Emily. Beautiful, lively, determined. When we met, I thought—here she is, the woman I’d move mountains for. Six months later, we married. And within a couple of years, I realised: I hadn’t fallen for her. I’d fallen for the illusion I’d conjured up myself.
Emily was miserly to the bone. Not practical, not sensible—just tight-fisted. Every time something needed fixing in the house, she’d say, “Not now.” And that “not now” stretched on for years. The flat fell apart around us—the tap dripped, the oven barely worked, the wallpaper peeled, the furniture groaned. But she refused to spend—on anything. Even a coffee shop visit was a frivolous waste. Gifts? Forget it. Once, I bought myself a shirt, and she flew into a rage—why waste money on nonsense?
Yet when her paycheck came in, she hoarded it like treasure. If I asked for groceries or repairs, came the interrogation: “What for?”, “Exactly how much?”, “Can’t you make do?”
I cracked. This wasn’t marriage—it was survival. I packed my things and filed for divorce. It dragged on for eighteen months. When it was over, I finally tasted—freedom. The real kind.
Luckily, I still had my grandmother’s old one-bed flat in Manchester after she passed. I’d rented it out for years, but after the divorce, I asked the tenants to leave and moved in myself. At first, it felt like breaking free from chains—I spent money on whatever I fancied: food, gadgets, clothes. I dined out, signed up for dating apps. I was sure—this time, I’d find her. The one who wasn’t like Emily.
But… I was naïve. I fell for every other woman, slept with every third. There were flings, hollow conversations, false hope. A few times, I thought—this is it. But the pattern repeated—same issues, same coldness, same disappointments. And I started wondering—maybe the problem was me?
Then, suddenly, I met her—Charlotte. Not online, not through friends, but completely by chance—at a mate’s birthday. She was divorced too. No kids. Just as worn out, but not lost. We started seeing each other. It was different. We listened. Laughed. Talked about the future. And when we finally got close, I knew—for the first time in years, I felt like I was with the right woman.
A month later, we were living together. Those were the warmest days I’d had in ages. I was happy. Charlotte cared for me, made me feel wanted, loved, real. We made plans—a house, holidays, maybe kids. But as they say, happiness loves silence. And I made a mistake.
One of the women I’d been with right after the divorce called. Just a fling, a forgotten number. She wanted to meet, “relive the good times.” I answered without thinking, not realising Charlotte was nearby. I meant to brush her off politely, but my voice faltered. I stammered, hesitated, begged her not to call again. But it was too late. Charlotte was right there. And she heard everything.
I could’ve told the truth straight away. Confessed. Explained how lost I’d been after the divorce, how recklessly I’d searched for something real. But I stayed silent. I chose excuses. And in doing so, I shattered her trust.
From that day, everything changed. The light left her eyes. Her kisses grew rare. Ice crept into her voice. She spoke of honesty, lies, how maybe there was no such thing as true women—or true men, either. We drifted apart. Slowly, almost imperceptibly. But every day—another step away.
I can’t accept it. I won’t lose her. Not after everything. Not after finally understanding what real love and respect mean. But how do I undo what’s done? How do I become the man she trusted again?
I don’t want pity. This is on me. But if anyone reading this knows how to mend broken trust—tell me. I’ll do anything. Because I love her. And because I’ve learned—it’s not the mistakes that scare me. It’s not fixing them.