Three years into our marriage, when our love still burned warm, my husband suddenly looked me in the eye and said:
“I want to sleep alone for a while…”
The words fell like a lightning bolt. To any wife, those are words that cut the soul. I cried, begged, even quarreled with him—but he remained unmoved. At last, helpless, I yielded.
But peace never came. Each night, as he closed the door to his room, a storm raged inside me. Questions clawed at my mind: Was he seeing someone else? Had he grown tired of me? Sleep eluded me; food tasted like ash.
Finally, one evening when he was away, my desperation drove me to act. I hired a worker, asked him to drill a tiny hole in the corner of my husband’s bedroom wall—just wide enough for my eye.
That night, heart pounding in my throat, I pressed myself to the wall, trembling.
And then—my world collapsed.
Inside, my husband was not with another woman. He was kneeling, candles flickering around him, clutching an old photograph. His face was wet with tears, his voice breaking as he whispered the name of the woman in the picture.
It wasn’t a stranger. It was his late wife—the bride who had died tragically five years before I entered his life.
My knees gave way beneath me. I had feared a living rival, but the truth was crueller: I was sharing a bed, a life, with a heart still chained to yesterday. His solitude had not been betrayal—it had been grief.
That night I lay in my own bed, tears soaking the pillow. I wasn’t angry anymore. Only hollow. Only pity—for him, for myself, for a love that had never been mine to claim.
In the days that followed, I carried on with routine—cooking, cleaning, speaking little. But inside, something had died. I no longer waited for his touch or tender words. Silence became my companion, until clarity finally came.
One quiet morning, I placed divorce papers on the table before him as he sipped his coffee. His eyes widened, his hands shook, but I managed a fragile smile.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I understand now. I shouldn’t cling to a heart that belongs elsewhere. I’m leaving… so you can live free.”
For a long moment he sat frozen, lips trembling, eyes red. But he did not stop me.
And so, I walked away. My bag was light, but my chest was unbearably heavy—carrying love, pain, and an unfulfilled longing. Yet beneath it all was relief. Relief that I was finally setting both of us free.
As I stepped into the unknown road ahead, I made myself a promise:
I would no longer lose myself in shadows of another’s past. I would live for me. And someday, I would find a love meant only for me—a love unshared, untainted by ghosts.
This time, I would not settle for half a heart.