Loneliness in Marriage. The Husband Left for Another. A Story
James and I had spent twenty years together. There were ups and downs, but I never regretted a single day with him.
I always tried to be a good wife—pleasing him, never contradicting him. What else could I do? A woman must be wise, or else she’ll end up alone—and looking around, I saw plenty of divorced women circling him. I forgave his cheating once or twice. Once, he even tried to leave, but I told him I couldn’t live without him. He stayed, out of fear.
James liked his drink—but then again, who doesn’t? At least he worked, bringing in just enough to keep us afloat. I took on two jobs myself. That’s how we managed.
When our daughter Lily was born and I was on maternity leave, unable to work, he grew worse—snapping about every expense, demanding I pinch pennies. But later, when I returned to work, I bought whatever Lily and I needed myself.
One morning, he came home drunk. When I asked where he’d been, he lashed out, raising his hand at me. I stayed silent. A wife should know her place—men need space, time away from family.
Then it wasn’t just a raised hand. I wore dark glasses to hide bruises, blaming it on walking into a cupboard door.
It happened again. And again. Until it never stopped. Doctors patching my broken nose and ribs urged me to report him. But how could I? James was my husband, the man I loved.
Besides, if I did, he’d leave. And Lily needed a father.
Though he barely noticed her—he’d wanted a son. A second child never came, no matter how much I prayed for one.
When Lily grew older, she begged me to leave him. Most children love their parents no matter what, but she feared him—she’d suffered his temper too. James was the head of the house, and we obeyed, but punishment was inevitable.
Years passed. I turned forty. Lily moved out with her boyfriend. James grew quieter, barely acknowledging me. I loved him in silence, never glancing at another man, doing everything to keep him content.
Then, one evening, he came home early—restless, pacing the flat. As if struggling to speak.
“James, what’s wrong?” I asked.
A pause. Then—
“I’ve had enough. I’m leaving.”
The world tilted. I gripped the chair.
“Leaving? Where? What about me? What about our family?”
“Family?” he scoffed. “Look at yourself! I’ve wasted my life tolerating you. Now I’ll live for myself—with a woman who deserves me!”
Tears burned. “There’s someone else?”
“Obviously. Who’d look at you twice? You’ve let yourself go. But me? Women notice me. I’m done with you.”
He snatched his bag. “I’ll get my things tomorrow!”
Just like that, twenty years ended.
Later, I learned he’d been with another woman for three years. That’s where he’d gone.
Today, I turn forty-five. It’s been five years since the divorce, and the pain still lingers.
He took everything he could in the split—every spoon, every pound—except the flat, which was my mother’s. The whole ordeal felt like a nightmare, unreal.
How?
I gave him everything.
Now, years later, I understand. You can’t live for someone else. You can’t forgive endless hurt without true remorse. You can’t diminish yourself, bending to another’s will. You can’t endure humiliation, abuse. And worst of all—I put my daughter second. Now she barely speaks to me, resentful for the childhood she lost.
If only I’d realized sooner.
The clock ticks loudly. Another lonely birthday. But I know now—whatever time I have left, I’ll live for myself, in peace and joy. No more shackles to another’s whims.
A knock at the door.
James stands there, smiling as if no time has passed. “Hello. I’m back for good. You’re the best woman I’ve ever known. Let me in?” He holds out a wilted daisy bunch.
I shut the door. “No. Go. And don’t come back.”
Finally, I’m free.
This is a true story—a friend lived it.
What do you think? Did she do right? How should a woman carry herself in marriage?
