We had been married for three years. Our love was still strong and passionate when one day my husband, with a serious look, suddenly said to me:
“I want to sleep alone for a while…”
I was stunned.
For any woman, those words strike like lightning.
I cried, I got angry, I desperately tried to resist, but he remained firm.
In the end, powerless, I had no choice but to give in.
Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. I kept thinking: “Is he seeing someone else?” “Has he already grown tired of me?”
Those fears consumed me day and night, robbing me of sleep and appetite.
One night, while my husband was out, I finally dared to hire a worker to make a small hole—no bigger than a thumb—in the corner of the wall of his bedroom.
The next night, with my heart pounding wildly, I pressed my eye to the hole, my whole body trembling.
And then… I nearly fainted from shock.
There was no other woman in the room.
Instead, he was kneeling, surrounded by candles, incense, and an old photograph.
His eyes were swollen, tears streaming down his face as he whispered a woman’s name and sobbed like a lost child.
That woman… was not a stranger.
It was his wedding photo with his first wife, who had passed away five years earlier.
He had asked to sleep alone not to betray me, but because, in silence, he longed to return to the memories of that first love he had never let go of.
I slid down the wall and sat on the floor, my eyes filling with tears.
My anger dissolved, replaced by deep sadness mixed with compassion: it wasn’t betrayal, but the truth that I had shared my life with a heart that had never truly been mine.
Sitting on the cold floor, my hands still resting on the edge of the hole, my soul was torn apart by the image of my husband kneeling before the portrait of his deceased wife. I had feared another woman of flesh and blood, another affair, but in reality, my rival was a relic of the past.
I once hoped that he would, with sincere love and loyalty, finally turn to me.
But I learned that some wounds and emotions cannot be replaced.
I was only a visitor in a house whose heart had already been sealed by yesterday.
That night I returned to my own room, buried my face in the pillow, and cried until I had no tears left.
I was no longer angry with him; I only felt compassion for myself—a woman who had given her youth to a heart that no longer had room for her.
In the days that followed, I continued with my chores: cooking, washing, cleaning.
But I stopped expecting hugs or sincere words.
I simply lived in silence, observing, waiting, and forming my decision.
One morning, I left the divorce papers on the table where he was drinking his coffee.
When he picked them up, his eyes widened in shock.
I gave him a faint but resolute smile and said:
“Now I understand, my love. I must not cling to a heart that was never mine.
I’m leaving so you can live your life freely.”
He stood frozen for a long time, his hands trembling and his eyes red.
But in the end, he said nothing to stop me.
When I finally left that house, my bag was light, but my chest ached heavily.
Full of love, pain, and longing… I also felt lighter, because I knew I had made the right decision: I had set us both free.
On the road ahead, I decided to live a different life—one in which my heart would no longer hide behind shadows.
I would learn to value myself, and when the time came, I would seek a pure love meant only for me, a love not shared with memories or ghosts.
This time, I swore I would never lose myself again.