I was married to a stingy woman. And then I made a mountain of mistakes myself…
One blunder after another—now I don’t know how to put things right.
The divorce was my idea. It’s been five years, and I still remember that day like it was yesterday—like someone had ripped a chunk out of me. Everything was unbearable: the marriage itself, how it crumbled, and how I tried to glue myself back together afterward. But y’know what? I’m not even sure that was the hardest part. The worst came later—when I became the very thing I swore I’d never be.
Her name was Eleanor. Beautiful, sharp, full of life. When we met, I thought—here she is, the woman I’d move heaven and earth for. Six months later, we tied the knot. And within a couple of years, I realised—I hadn’t fallen for *her*, but for the illusion I’d cooked up in my own head.
Eleanor was thrifty to a fault. No, not sensible, not practical—just tight-fisted. Every time we needed something for the house, she’d say, “Not now.” And that “not now” stretched on for years. The flat fell apart around us—the tap dripped, the cooker barely worked, the wallpaper peeled, the furniture groaned. But she refused to spend a penny—on anything. Even a trip to the café was, in her eyes, money down the drain. Presents? Forget it. Once, I bought myself a shirt, and she kicked off—”Why waste money on rubbish?”
Meanwhile, when payday came, she’d hoard her wages like buried treasure. If I asked for grocery money or a bit for repairs, the interrogation began: “What for?” “How much exactly?” “Can’t you manage without?”
I cracked. It wasn’t a marriage—it was survival mode. I packed my bags and filed for divorce. The whole ordeal dragged on for eighteen months. When it was finally over, I felt it—real freedom.
Lucky for me, after my grandmother passed, I inherited a little flat in Manchester. I’d rented it out for years, but after the divorce, I turfed out the tenants and moved in. The first few months, I went wild—spent money on anything that caught my eye, from gadgets to takeaway to new clothes. I booked restaurants, signed up to dating apps. Convinced I’d find *the one*. Someone nothing like Eleanor.
But… I was naïve. I fancied every second woman, slept with every third. Plenty of one-night stands, empty chats, dashed hopes. A few times, I thought—this is it. But the pattern repeated—same problems, same coldness, same old grudges. And I started wondering—maybe *I* was the problem?
Then, out of nowhere, I met her—Emily. Not online, not through mates, but by pure chance—at a friend’s birthday do. She was divorced too. No kids. Worn out, but not broken. We started seeing each other. It was different. We listened, laughed, talked about the future. And the first time we slept together, I knew—for the first time in years, I actually felt like I was with the right woman.
A month later, we moved in. Those were the warmest days I’d had in years. I was happy. Emily looked after me, and I felt wanted, loved, real. We made plans—a house, holidays, maybe kids. But as they say, happiness is a quiet thing. And I messed it up.
One of the women I’d hooked up with right after the divorce rang me. Random girl, random number. She wanted to meet up, “relive the good times.” I answered without thinking—Emily was right there. I meant to brush her off, but my voice cracked. I stammered, mumbled, told her not to ring again. Too late. Emily had heard everything.
I could’ve come clean then. Told her the truth. Explained how lost I was after the divorce, how I’d scrambled for something real. But I kept quiet. Made excuses. And in doing so, I wrecked the one thing that mattered—her trust.
After that, everything changed. Her eyes lost their spark. Her kisses grew rare. Ice crept into her voice. She started talking about honesty, about lies, about whether *real* men—or women—even existed. We drifted. Slowly, almost unnoticed. But every day—a little further apart.
I can’t accept it. I don’t want to lose her. Not after everything we’ve been through. Not now I finally understand what love and respect really mean. But how do I fix it? How do I become the man she trusts again?
I’m not after pity. I did this to myself. But if anyone’s reading this and knows how to mend broken trust—tell me. I’ll do anything. Because I love her. And because I’ve learned—making mistakes isn’t the worst thing. The worst thing is leaving them uncorrected.
