I realized everything far too late and tried to go back to my ex-wife, the woman I spent 30 years with, but it was already too late.
My name is Miguel Pérez, and I live in Toledo, where Castilla-La Mancha moves forward through its gray days among olive trees and vineyards. I’m 52 years old and I have nothing. No wife, no family, no children, no job—only emptiness, like the cold wind in an abandoned house. I destroyed everything I had, and now I live among the ruins of my life, staring into the abyss I dug with my own hands.
I spent 30 years with my wife Elena. I was the provider, working and supporting the family while she took care of the home. I liked that she stayed at home, that I didn’t have to share her with the outside world. But over time, she started to irritate me—her care, her habits, her voice. The love faded, dissolved into routine. I thought it was normal, the way things were supposed to be. I felt comfortable in that gray stability. But then fate put me to the test, and I failed.
One night in a bar, I met Julia. She was 32, twenty years younger than me—beautiful, lively, with sparks in her eyes. She seemed like the embodiment of a dream, a breath of fresh air in my stagnant life. We started dating, and she soon became my lover. For two months I lived a double life, until I realized I didn’t want to go home to Elena anymore. I thought I loved Julia—or at least I convinced myself I did. I wanted her to be my wife, my new future.
I gathered the courage and confessed everything to Elena. She didn’t scream, didn’t break any dishes—she just looked at me with empty eyes and nodded. I convinced myself she didn’t care either, that her feelings had died long ago. Only now do I see how deeply I hurt her. We divorced. We sold the apartment where our children had grown up, where every corner held memories of the past. Julia insisted that I leave nothing to Elena. I listened to her. I took my share and bought Julia a large apartment. Elena was left with a small flat, and I didn’t even help her financially. I knew she had no job and no way to support herself, but I didn’t care. My sons, Álvaro and Iván, pulled away from me; they called me a traitor and cut all contact. At the time, I didn’t care—I had Julia, a new life, and that seemed enough.
Julia got pregnant, and I looked forward to the child with hope. But when the baby was born, I noticed that he looked like neither me nor her. Friends whispered, my brother warned me, but I pushed those thoughts aside. Life with Julia became hell. I worked myself to exhaustion, supported the house and the baby, while she demanded more money, disappeared at night, and came home drunk. The house was a mess, no food, constant fights over meaningless things. I lost my job—fatigue and anger took their toll. I spent three years in that hell, until my brother forced me to take a DNA test. The result hit me like a hammer—the child wasn’t mine.
I divorced Julia the same day I got the truth. She disappeared, taking everything she could. I was left alone—no wife, no children, no strength. Then I decided to go back to Elena. I bought flowers, wine, cake—I went to her like a beaten dog. But someone else lived in her apartment now. The new tenant gave me her new address. I went there, trembling with hope. A man opened the door. Elena had found a job, married a coworker, and looked happy—radiant, happier than I had ever seen her. She had built a new life without me.
Later, I saw her at a café. I fell to my knees and begged her to take me back. She looked at me like I was a pathetic fool and walked away without saying a word. Now I see what a fool I was. Why did I leave the woman I spent 30 years of my life with? Why did I trade my family for a young woman who drained me and abandoned me? For an illusion of love I never should have believed in? I’m 52 years old, and I’m like a worn-out piece of furniture. My sons won’t return my calls, and my job slipped away like sand through my fingers. I’ve lost everything that mattered to me, and it’s all my fault.
Every night I dream of Elena—her calm eyes, her voice, her warmth. I wake up in the cold of loneliness and realize I’m the one who pushed her out of my life. She isn’t waiting for me, she won’t forgive me, and I’m not worthy of forgiveness. My mistake is a scar that burns in my soul. I wish I could turn back time, but it’s too late. Far too late. Now I wander the streets of Toledo like a ghost, searching for what I destroyed with my own hands. I have nothing left—only regret, and it will follow me until the end of my days. I ruined my family, my life, and I carry this burden alone, knowing there’s nothing I can do to change it.