I ruined our marriage… and now I don’t know how to get her back.
Six years ago, I met a woman who turned my world upside down. Her name was Eleanor. She might as well have been from another planet—stunning, successful, self-assured, with a brilliant career as a barrister and a family tree impressive enough to make anyone’s head spin. Her parents were well-respected in Manchester, the kind of people with influence, connections, and enough money to make mere mortals nervous.
And me? At the time, I was teaching physics at an ordinary secondary school on the outskirts of town. A quiet, unremarkable bloke with a couple of academic papers, a battered Ford Fiesta, and a tiny flat inherited from my nan. When Ellie first took notice of me, I was convinced it was a prank—or maybe some sort of social experiment. But she was serious. First, a smile, then coffee, films, long conversations… and before I knew it, we were properly together.
I was head over heels, yet part of me still couldn’t believe my luck. My hands shook when I touched her. She seemed too perfect, like a mirage. Marriage wasn’t something I dared imagine—until she said it herself: *”It’s time to move forward. I want a child with you.”* I was floored. Joy hit me like a tidal wave. I scooped her up in my arms and shouted like a madman right there on the pavement: *”Yes!”*
The wedding was lavish. Her parents covered most of it, invited half of Manchester, and gave us a three-bedroom townhouse in the city centre. To me, it felt like a fairy tale. But deep down, a nagging fear had already taken root: *”What if she wakes up one day and realises I’m a mistake? That I’m not good enough? That she deserves better…”*
We tried for a baby, but nothing happened. Doctors said the issue was on Ellie’s side, but somehow, I blamed myself. I became convinced I was cursed—that my own inadequacy was destroying her dreams. That insecurity began eating away at us.
I refused to consider adoption. *”What if she still gets pregnant naturally?”* I’d say, to her and to myself. And then, I uttered the words I’ll never forgive myself for: *”Maybe you should… try with someone else. Just in case.”*
The way she looked at me—like I’d slapped her. Her eyes widened, full of hurt, disgust… and confusion. I expected shouting, a row, but she just turned away. Months later, I felt the wall between us grow taller. She had a brief fling with a colleague that fizzled out quickly. By then, I already felt disposable.
We stopped laughing together. No more morning hugs. She didn’t rush to me after work. The warmth in her gaze had vanished.
One evening, I clenched my fists and said, *”If you want, I’ll leave. I’d understand if you need something… different.”* She didn’t answer. Just cried and slept on the sofa. By morning, I packed my things and left.
The divorce was quiet. No fights, just paperwork. But the moment the judge said, *”You are now officially divorced,”* something inside me snapped. I’d lost the love of my life.
Three years on, I live alone. No serious relationships. Can’t. Won’t. She’s still in me, like a ghost.
Rumour has it Ellie hasn’t settled down either. A few flings, dates—nothing lasting.
Sometimes I sit by the window in the dark, wondering: *”Call her? Text? Say I miss her? That I love her?”* But then comes the terror—what if she says she’s fine? That she doesn’t need me anymore?
I blame myself for letting her go. For not fighting. For letting fear wreck the best thing I ever had.
I don’t know how to fix this. But one thing’s certain—I still love her. Completely. Irreplaceably.
Tell me… what would you do in my place? Should I knock on a closed door? Or wait, hoping she might open it—just a crack? I’m terrified. But maybe… maybe it’s not too late?
