“I want to sleep alone for a while…”
I was stunned. For any woman, those words are like lightning. I cried, lashed out, and tried furiously to resist, but he remained immovable. In the end, powerless, I had no choice but to submit.
However, uneasiness persisted within me. I kept thinking, “Could he be seeing someone else?” Has he already been disgusted by me?” These fears overwhelmed me day and night, robbing both my appetite and my sleep.
One evening, while my husband was away, I finally dared to hire a worker to drill a tiny hole, no larger than a thumb, in the corner of his bedroom wall.
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The following night, my heart beating wildly, I pressed my eye against the hole, my entire body trembling.
And then… I nearly collapsed in sh0ck.
Inside the room, he wasn’t holding another woman. Instead, he was kneeling, surrounded by candles, incense, and an old photograph. His eyes were swollen, tears streaming down as he whispered a woman’s name and sobbed like a lost child.
That woman… she was no stranger. It was his wedding photo with his first wife, the one who had passed away five years earlier.
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He had asked to sleep alone not to betray me, but because he longed, in silence, to return to the memories of that first love he had never let go of.
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I slid down to the floor, tears flooding my eyes. My fury dissolved, replaced by deep sorrow mingled with sympathy: it wasn’t betrayal at all, but rather the truth that I had been sharing a life with a heart that had never been mine.
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Sitting on the chilly ground, my hands still grasping the hole’s edge, I felt my soul ripped apart by the sight of my husband kneeling in front of his late wife’s portrait. I had feared another flesh and blood lady, another affair, but in actuality, my competitor was a relic from the past.
I had once hoped that with sincere love and consistent commitment, he would finally turn to me. But I ultimately learned that some hurts and emotions cannot be replaced. I was just a visitor at a home where the heart had already been sealed by yesterday.
That night I returned to my own room, buried my face in the pillow, and cried until no tears remained. I wasn’t angry at him anymore; I only pitied myself — a woman who had offered her youth to a heart that had no space left for her.
In the days that followed, I continued with my duties: cooking, washing, and cleaning. But I stopped waiting for embraces or heartfelt remarks. I simply lived in silence, watching, waiting, and shaping my decision.
One morning, I placed the divorce papers on the table where he was sitting with his coffee. When he lifted them, his eyes widened with surprise. I flashed him a frail but determined smile and said:
— I understand now, darling. I shouldn’t cling to a heart that wasn’t mine. I’m leaving so you can live your life freely.
He remained motionless for a long time, his hands quivering and his eyes inflamed. But eventually, he said nothing to stop me.
When I eventually left that house, my bag was light, but my chest was uncomfortably heavy. Filled with love, pain, and longing… I felt lighter, too, since I knew I’d made the correct decision: I was freeing us both.
On the road ahead, I determined to live a different life, one in which my heart could no longer hide behind any shadows. I’d learn to value myself, and when the time came, I’d look for a pure love meant exclusively for me, one that wasn’t shared with memories or spirits.
This time, I vowed to never lose myself again.