I never loved my wife, and I told her so many times. It wasn’t her fault—we got along well enough.
My name is Edward Whitmore, and I live in Coventry, where the scars of war still linger beneath the city’s quiet resilience. I never loved my wife, Alice, and more than once, I hurled that truth at her like a shard of ice. She didn’t deserve it—never made a scene, never blamed me, always gentle, caring, almost saintly. But my heart remained cold, like the frost on the Thames in December. There was no love, and the emptiness gnawed at me.
Every morning, I woke with the same thought: *Leave*. I dreamed of finding a woman who’d set my soul alight, someone I could truly breathe with. But fate played a cruel trick, turning everything upside down in a way I still can’t fathom. With Alice, I was comfortable, like an old armchair. She kept our home immaculate, looked so striking that strangers turned their heads, and friends clapped me on the back: “Where’d you find her, you lucky devil?” I never understood why she stayed. Just an ordinary bloke, nothing special—yet she loved me as if I were her whole world. How could that be?
Her love suffocated me. Worse, though, was the thought that if I left, someone else would take her. Someone smarter, handsomer, wealthier—someone who’d cherish what I couldn’t see. The idea of her in another man’s arms twisted my gut with rage. She was *mine*—even if I never loved her. That possessiveness was stronger than reason. But could I spend a lifetime beside someone who left my heart silent? I thought I could, but I was wrong—a storm was brewing inside me, impossible to contain.
“Tomorrow, I’ll tell her,” I vowed before bed. Over breakfast, I mustered the last of my courage. “Alice, sit down. We need to talk,” I said, meeting her calm gaze. “Of course, darling. What’s the matter?” she replied, ever patient. “Imagine we divorced. I move out, we live separately…” She laughed as if I were joking. “What a strange game! Is this a test?” “Just listen—I’m serious,” I snapped. “All right. I’ve imagined it. And?” she asked, still smiling. “Be honest—would you find someone else?” She froze. “Edward, what’s gotten into you?” Her voice wavered. “Because I don’t love you. Never have,” I blurted, like a hammer blow.
Alice paled. “You can’t mean that.” “I want to leave, but the thought of you with another man drives me mad,” I confessed, my voice shaking. She was quiet, then said softly, almost sadly, “You needn’t worry. I won’t replace you. Go—I’ll stay alone.” “Promise?” I demanded. “I promise,” she murmured. “But—where would I go?” I faltered. “You’ve no place in mind?” “No. We’ve always been together. Seems I’ll have to stay close,” I muttered, the ground tilting beneath me. “Don’t fret,” Alice said. “After the divorce, we’ll sell this house, split the proceeds.” “You’d really do that for me? Why?” I asked, stunned. “Because I love you. When you love someone, you don’t cage them.” Her words felt like a verdict.
Months passed. We divorced. Then I heard the rumours: Alice had lied. She’d found another—tall, confident, with a warm smile. The flat inherited from her grandmother? Never up for division. I was left with nothing—no home, no family, no trust. The betrayal cut deep, and still, her voice echoed: *I’ll stay alone*. A lie. Cold and calculated, and I’d swallowed it whole.
Now, how do I trust again? My life with her was hollow but easy, and now even that’s gone. I sit in a rented room, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation. Her calm, her words—all a mask. My mates say, “You brought this on yourself, Ed. What did you expect?” They’re right. I didn’t love her but clung to her like a miser to gold. Now she’s gone, leaving me with the loneliness I feared most. Maybe this is my reckoning—for the coldness, the selfishness, for taking her heart for granted. Alone now, the silence cuts deeper than her absence ever could. Who’s the greater fool—her or me?
Perhaps the lesson is this: love, or the lack of it, always finds its price.