I’ve never loved my wife, and I often told her so. It wasn’t her fault—we lived a fairly decent life.
My name is Andrew Wolf, and I live in York, where the echoes of history linger amid everyday monotony. I never loved my wife, Sarah, and I didn’t hide this bitter truth from her. She didn’t deserve it—never threw tantrums, never reproached, always gentle, caring, almost saintly. Yet my heart remained as cold as ice on the Thames in winter. There was no love, and that gnawed at me.
Every morning I woke up with one thought: to leave. I dreamed of finding a woman who would ignite passion in me, who would make me feel alive. But fate played a cruel joke, turning everything on its head, leaving me reeling. Being with Sarah was as comfortable as an old armchair. She managed our home impeccably, looked so good that passersby would take a second glance, and friends would pat me on the back, saying, “Where’d you find such a gem, you lucky bloke?” I didn’t grasp what I’d done to deserve her devotion. Just an ordinary guy, nothing remarkable, yet she loved me as if I was her whole world. How could that be?
Her love suffocated me. It was even more troubling to think that if I left, someone else would take her—someone more successful, handsome, wealthier—someone who would appreciate her as I couldn’t. I imagined her in someone else’s arms, and rage clouded my mind. She was mine—even if I never loved her. This sense of possession overwhelmed me, stronger than common sense. But can you live a lifetime with someone your heart doesn’t speak to? I thought I could, but I was wrong—a storm was brewing inside me that I couldn’t contain.
“I’ll tell her everything tomorrow,” I resolved as I went to bed. In the morning, I gathered the remnants of my courage over breakfast. “Sarah, sit down, we need to talk,” I started, looking into her calm eyes. “Of course, dear, what is it?” she replied, as gentle as ever. “Imagine we get divorced. I leave, and we live separately…” She laughed as if I were joking: “What strange ideas! Are you playing a game?” “Listen, I’m serious,” I cut her off. “Alright, I imagined it. And then?” she asked, still smiling. “Be honest: if I leave, will you find someone else?” She froze. “Andrew, what’s going on? Why are you even thinking about this?”—her voice laced with concern. “Because I don’t love you and never have,” I admitted, like a blow.
Sarah paled. “What? You must be joking. I don’t understand.” “I want to leave, but the thought of you being with someone else drives me mad,” my voice trembled with tension. She paused, then quietly, with a sad wisdom, said, “I won’t find anyone better than you, don’t worry. Go, I’ll stay alone.” “Promise?” I blurted out. “Of course,” she nodded, looking into my eyes. “Wait, but where should I go?” I stumbled. “Don’t you have anywhere?” she was surprised. “No, we’ve been together our whole lives. Looks like I’ll have to stay nearby,” I mumbled, feeling the ground slip away. “Don’t worry,” Sarah replied, “After the divorce, we can swap the house for two smaller ones.” “Really? I didn’t expect you’d help me like this. Why?” I asked, astonished. “Because I love you. When you love someone, you don’t hold them against their will,” her words struck like a sentence.
Months passed. We divorced. And then I heard the rumors: Sarah lied. She found someone else—a tall, confident man with a kind smile. The house her grandmother left her, she never intended to share. I was left with nothing—no home, no family, no faith in people. The betrayal unfolded like a stab in the back, and I still hear her voice: “I’ll stay alone.” Lies. Cold, calculated lies, and I believed them like a fool.
How do I trust women now? I don’t know. My life with her was comfortable, but empty, and now even that’s gone. I sit in a rented room, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation. Her calmness, her words—they were all a facade. Friends say, “It’s your own fault, Andrew, what did you expect?” And they’re right. I didn’t love her but wanted to keep her like a possession. And she left, leaving me in the loneliness I so feared. Perhaps this is my penance—for the coldness, for the selfishness, for not valuing her heart. Now I’m alone, and the silence around me cuts deeper than her departure. What do you think of my actions? I don’t even know who’s the bigger fool—me or her.
