Loneliness in Marriage. A Husband Leaves for Another.
William and I spent twenty years together. There were good times and bad, but I never regretted a single day by his side.
I always strived to be a good wife—pleasing him, never arguing. What else could I do? A woman must be wise, or she might lose her man—just look at all those divorced women circling him. I forgave his affairs. Once, he tried to leave, but I told him I couldn’t live without him. He stayed.
He liked his drink, but who doesn’t? At least he worked and brought some money home. It was enough. I had two jobs myself. That’s how we got by.
When our daughter was born and I couldn’t work, William grew bitter—complaining about every penny spent. But once I returned to work, I bought what we needed myself, for me and for Emily.
One morning, he came home drunk. When I asked where he’d been, he shouted and raised his hand. I stayed quiet. A wife must understand—men need space sometimes.
Then he didn’t just raise his hand. I wore sunglasses to hide the bruises, telling everyone I’d bumped into a cupboard door.
It happened again. And again. Soon, it was constant. Doctors treating my broken nose and ribs urged me to report him. But I couldn’t. William was my love, my life.
And if I did, he’d leave.
We had a child who needed a father.
Yet he barely noticed Emily—he’d wanted a son. Another child never came, though I longed for one.
When she grew older, Emily begged me to leave. Unusual, I know—children usually love their parents. But she feared him. He was the authority, and though we obeyed, punishment still came.
Years passed. I turned forty. Emily moved in with her boyfriend.
William grew quieter, barely speaking, barely looking at me. I loved him silently, devoted, never glancing at other men. Did everything to keep him happy.
Then one evening, he came home early—restless, pacing. Hesitant.
“William, what’s wrong?” I broke the silence.
A pause.
“I’m done. I’m leaving.”
The room spun. I gripped the chair.
“Leaving? Where? What about us—our family?”
“What family?” he snapped. “Look at you! I’ve tolerated you for years. Finally, I’ll live for myself—with a woman who deserves me.”
“There’s someone else?” My voice cracked.
“Of course. Who’d look at you now? I’m still a catch. You? Worn out. I’m sick of your devotion.”
He grabbed a bag. “I’ll get my things tomorrow.”
And just like that, twenty years ended.
Later, I learned he’d been with her for three years.
Today, I turned forty-five. Five years since the divorce, and I’m still not whole.
He took everything he could—except the flat, left to me by Mum. It all felt like a nightmare. How could this happen?
After all I did for him.
Now, I see the truth. You can’t live for someone else. You can’t forgive unrepentant cruelty. You can’t shrink yourself, endure abuse. And I put Emily second—now she barely speaks to me, resentful for her stolen childhood.
What a waste.
The clock ticks loudly. Another lonely birthday. But this time, I know—whatever’s left, I’ll live for joy. Free from someone else’s whims.
A knock.
William stood there, smiling as if nothing had happened. A sad little bunch of daisies in hand.
“Hello. I’m back for good. You’re still the best.”
I shut the door.
This time, I’m choosing my own life.
Note: A true story, told by a friend.
What do you think—did she do right? How should a woman stand in her own marriage?
