Now I’m 52 years old, and I have nothing. No wife, no family, no children, no job nothing at all.
My name is Edward. My wife and I were married for 30 years. I was always the one who provided for the family while my wife, Margaret, took care of the home. I never wanted her to workI was happy knowing she was there. But over time, she started to irritate me.
We lived together respectfully, but the love had faded. I thought that was normal. It didnt bother me. Then everything changed. One night, in a pub, I met Lucy. She was 20 years youngerbeautiful, kind, and full of life. Like a dream come true.
We began seeing each other, and soon she became my mistress. After two months, I realised I didnt want to keep lying to my wife. I dreaded going home after work. I knew then that I loved Lucy and wanted her as my wife.
A few days later, I told Margaret the truth. She didnt make a sceneshe stayed calm. I thought she didnt love me either, which was why she took it so well. But now I see how deeply I hurt her.
We divorced. We sold the flat where wed spent so many years together. Lucy insisted I shouldnt let my ex-wife keep it, so I didnt. Margaret bought a small studio flat, while I used my savings to buy a two-bedroom place for Lucy.
I didnt help my ex-wifenot even a penny. I knew she had little money and wouldnt find work straight away, but at the time, I didnt care. Our sons, James and Oliver, refused to speak to me. They felt Id betrayed their mother and couldnt forgive me.
Back then, it didnt matter much to me. Lucy was pregnant, and we eagerly awaited the baby. Soon, a boy was born. But he didnt look like meor Lucy. My mates doubted he was mine, but I wouldnt listen.
Life with Lucy was miserable. I worked long hours, looked after the house, and cared for the child. Lucy only ever asked for money and was always out. The flat was a mess, with no meals ever ready. Shed stumble home at three or four in the morning, reeking of booze, picking fights over nothing.
In the end, I lost my job. I was exhausted, angry, and doing poor work. Three years passed like this. Then my brotherwhod never approved of Lucy and doubted the boy was mineconvinced me to get a DNA test. It turned out he wasnt my son.
I divorced Lucy the moment the truth came out. By then, Id had no contact with Margaret or my sons. After the divorce, I decided to go back to my first wife. I bought flowers, wine, a cake, and went to see her. But Margaret no longer lived there. The new owner gave me her address.
When I arrived, a man answered the door. Margaret had landed a good job and remarrieda colleague. She was happy. She was doing well.
Some time later, I spotted her in a café. I begged her to take me back. She looked at me like I was a fool and walked away. Now I understand the mistake I made. What did I want? What did I achieve? Why did I leave my wife for a younger woman?
Now Im 52. And I have nothing. No wife, no job, not even my sons will speak to me. I lost everything that ever mattered. And it was entirely my fault. I sit alone in a rented room, the walls bare, the silence heavy. The clock ticks past midnight, and I stare at the photo of usMargaret, James, Oliver, and meon our last family holiday, the one where we all still smiled. I trace the edges of the worn picture, wondering how I ever mistook longing for love, how I traded decades of quiet devotion for a fleeting illusion. Outside, rain taps the window like a memory I cant escape. I close my eyes and see her facenot Lucys, but Margaretsthe way she looked at me that final time, not with anger, but with pity. And in that look, I finally understood: some doors close forever, and all the regret in the world wont turn the lock.
