I’ve never loved my wife, and I told her as much more than once. It wasn’t her fault – we lived reasonably well.
My name is Andrew Wolfe, and I reside in Rotherham, where South Yorkshire bears its scars of history and everyday life. I never loved my wife, Susan, and I hurled that bitter truth at her often. She didn’t deserve it—never caused scenes, never reproached me, always kind, caring, nearly saintly. But my heart remained cold, like frost on the Thames in winter. There was no love and it gnawed at me from the inside.
Each morning I woke with the thought of leaving. I dreamed of finding a woman who would ignite a fire within me, who would be my breath. But fate played a cruel trick, turning everything upside down, leaving me disoriented. With Susan, I felt comfortable, like an old armchair. She kept the house impeccable, turned heads when walking down the street, and friends would slap my back: “Where did you find such a gem, you lucky guy?” I never understood what I had done to deserve her loyalty. Just an ordinary bloke, unremarkable in any way, yet she loved me as if I were her whole world. How is that possible?
Her love suffocated me. Even worse was the thought: if I leave, another will take her. Someone more successful, more handsome, wealthier—someone who appreciates what I couldn’t see. When I imagined her in another’s arms, rage clouded my mind. She was mine—even if I never loved her. This possessiveness overpowered my rational mind. But could I live my life with someone my heart didn’t speak to? I thought I could, but I was wrong—a storm was brewing inside me that I couldn’t contain.
“Tomorrow I’ll tell her everything,” I decided as I went to bed. In the morning, over breakfast, I gathered what courage I had left. “Susan, we need to talk,” I started, looking into her calm eyes. “Of course, dear, what’s the matter?” she replied with her usual softness. “Imagine we’re getting a divorce. I’m leaving, and we live separately…” She laughed as if I were joking: “What strange fantasies! Is this a game?” “Listen carefully, I’m serious,” I cut her off. “Okay, pictured it. And?” she asked, still with a smile. “Answer honestly: would you find someone else if I left?” She froze. “Andrew, what’s going on with you? Why are you even thinking about this?”—for the first time, concern edged her voice. “Because I don’t love you and never have,” I blurted out as if struck.
Susan went pale. “What? Are you joking? I don’t understand.” “I want to leave, but the thought of you with someone else drives me mad,” my voice shook with strain. 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 me in the eyes. “Wait, but where would I go?” I fumbled. “You don’t have anywhere?” she was surprised. “No, we’ve been together all our life. Looks like I’ll have to stay close,” I muttered, feeling the ground fall away. “Don’t worry,” Susan answered. “After the divorce, we’ll exchange our place for two smaller ones.” “Really? I didn’t expect you’d help me like this. Why?” I asked, bewildered. “Because I love you. When you love, you don’t hold on by force,” her words felt like a verdict.
Months passed. We divorced. Then I heard rumors: Susan lied. She found another—tall, confident, with a kind smile. The flat she inherited from her grandmother, she never intended to split. I was left with nothing—no home, no family, no faith in people. Betrayal unveiled like a stab in the back, and I still hear her words: “I’ll stay alone.” A lie. A cold, calculated lie, and I was fool enough to believe it.
How do I trust women now? I don’t know. My life with her was convenient, but empty, and now that’s gone too. I sit in a rented room, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation. Her calmness, her words—all was a mask. Friends say, “You brought this on yourself, Andrew, what did you expect?” And they’re right. I didn’t love her, but I wanted to keep her like a possession. And she left, leaving me in the solitude I so feared. Maybe this is my punishment—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 about my actions? I don’t even know who the bigger fool is—me or her.
