I am now fifty-two years old. And I have nothing. No wife, no family, no children, no worksimply nothing at all…
My name is Edward. My wife and I spent thirty years together, drifting quietly through life. I was always the breadwinner, ensuring there was food on the table, while my wife cared for our home. I never wanted her to go out and work; I liked that she was always there. But over the years, something inside me soured. Her very presence began to irritate me.
We moved around each other politely, our respect intact, but love had faded to the dullest shadow. I convinced myself that this was simply how things are. That was comfortable, I thought. And then the world turned upside-down. One night, while I was nursing a pint in the Red Lion, I met a woman named Charlotte. She was twenty years younger than me, beautiful, full of laughter, with a glint of mischief in her eye. She seemed like a waking dream.
We started seeing each other, and soon, she became my lover. After two months, I realised I couldnt keep lying to my wife. I dreaded the walk home each evening. I was certain I loved Charlotte, wanted her to become my wife.
A few days later, I told my wife the truth. She didnt shout or curse. She listened, unblinking, calm as the Thames at dawn. Back then, I thought her reserve meant she no longer cared for me. Now I see just how deeply Id wounded Margaret.
We divorced. We sold the flat that had held our years together. Charlotte insisted I shouldnt leave the old place to my ex-wife, so I did as she wished. Margaret bought herself a tiny studio with her share, while I used what little savings I had to buy Charlotte a two-bedroom flat.
I didnt help Margaret, didnt give her a penny more. I knew she had no money, and that finding work at her age wouldnt be easy. But then, I didnt care. Our sons refused to speak to me, their disappointment choking the fragile connection between us. They believed I had betrayed their mother; I suppose they were right.
I barely noticed. Charlotte was pregnant; I waited restlessly for our child to be born. Then our son arrived. But he looked nothing like either of us. Rumours sprouted, friends began to question whether he was truly mine. I tried to block out their voices.
Living with Charlotte proved to be nothing like my dream. I worked myself to the bone; chores, childcare, cookingeverything fell on my shoulders. Charlotte wanted money, always more, vanishing for hours on end. The flat was a mess, dinners never prepared. Shed come home at three or four in the morning, reeking of gin, always itching for a row.
Eventually, I lost my job. Stress, exhaustion, becoming carelessthis was my lot for three years. Then my brother, whod never liked Charlotte, who always questioned whether the boy was mine, urged me to get a DNA test. The result: the child wasnt mine.
I ended the marriage the moment the truth surfaced. All that time, I hadnt so much as written to Margaret or our sons. After divorcing Charlotte, I decided to try and return to my first wife. I bought flowers from the stall near the station, a bottle of wine, and some custard tarts, and set off for her flat. But Margaret no longer lived there. The new tenant handed me her forwarding address.
I went there, hope fluttering in my chest. A man answered the door. I learned that Margaret had found a good job, married a colleague, and was living happily.
Some weeks later, I bumped into her by chance at a small café. I begged her to come back to me. She looked at me as though I were raving, then gathered her things and left. Now its painfully clear to me what a gargantuan mistake I made. What did I hope for? What did I gain? Why did I throw away my wife for a younger woman?
Here I am, fifty-two years old. No wife, no job, not even my sons will speak to me. Ive lost every single thing that mattered. And all of itentirely my fault. Tragically, theres nothing I can do to undo this ruinous error…
