My most bitter sorrow: I am 33, with two children, and I live with a man for whom I am nothing but a ghost in his home.
Not long ago, I found myself reflecting on my life, and this story resurfaced in my memory like an unhealed wound. To some, it may seem ordinary, but to me, it is the tragedy that shattered my fate. My name is Eleanor Whitmore, and I live in a quiet little town called Wednesbury, tucked away among the rolling hills of Shropshire. I am 33, a mother of two, and every morning I wake beside a man who sees me as little more than a piece of furniture—familiar, convenient, and invisible.
I was an only child. My parents neither spoiled me nor ruled me with an iron fist. I was quiet, obedient—both in childhood and at school. I gave them no reason to scold me, living contentedly in my small world where my mother and father were my guiding lights. I loved them so dearly that I even chose to study at the local university, unwilling to leave home. The thought of stepping into the unknown without them seemed unthinkable.
In my first year, I met James. Our love grew slowly, like a flower pushing through cracked pavement, but soon I knew—I loved him with all my heart. He became my first true affection, my great, untainted love. James was not just any man—he pulled me out of the shell where I had hidden all my life. With him, I learned to laugh louder, dream bolder, live brighter. I blossomed, and everyone saw it—even my parents. They insisted I bring him home, introduce him properly. But I hesitated, my chest tight with cold dread, for I knew they would never accept him.
And yet, the day came. I brought James home, and from the moment he stepped inside, it was a nightmare. My parents interrogated him relentlessly: Who was he? Where was he from? What did his family do? What were his ambitions? What did he intend to do with me? I stood by, burning with shame, sweat trickling down my back. Had I been in his place, I would have walked out long before. But James held his ground, answering calmly, even smiling. My parents, however, remained unmoved. The moment he left, they turned on me like vultures.
They spoke as one: “That boy is no match for you! An ordinary family, no prospects—you’ll be miserable with him!” They painted grim pictures: love would fade, leaving only poverty and tears. And he was from far away, another corner of the country—how could they bear it if their only daughter vanished hundreds of miles from home? I knew they were wrong, felt it with every fibre of my being, but I had no strength to argue. Their words pressed down on me like a stone, and I surrendered.
The next day, I met James. It was after exams, midsummer sweltering, yet my insides had turned to ice. I told him we had to part. He looked at me in silence, then turned and walked away. I never saw him again. By the next term, he was gone—friends whispered he had transferred to Edinburgh. My heart shattered, my soul howled in agony, but I did not die. I only locked my feelings away and carried on.
Before graduation, my parents found me a husband—William. I married him without love, as if obeying an order. Ours was no marriage, but an arrangement: they chose, I complied. At the wedding, my mother and father beamed with pride, while I watched as though from afar, a stranger in my own life. Now, at 33, with two children growing beside me, I live with William—a man to whom I am nothing more than part of the furnishings. We have money, the house gleams with polish and modernity, but it is not my home—it is his fortress. He reminds me often that I ought to kneel in gratitude for this “comfort,” for his generosity.
I know he keeps mistresses. He does not even hide it—spends freely on them, comes home late, while our little town hums with whispers. Everyone talks of his escapades, murmurs behind my back. Had I loved him, it would have killed me. But I feel nothing—no pain, only numbness. I do not suffer; I merely exist. My parents see what happens and avert their eyes. Once, my father, staring at the floor, muttered, “We never should have kept you from James…” No, they should not have. But what good does that do now? I obeyed them, and in doing so, I shattered my own life.
Every day, I ask myself: Where is the girl who once dreamed of happiness? She is gone. Only a shell remains—a mother, a wife, a shadow. James may have forgotten me, but I still see his face in my dreams. There is no going back, and this sorrow is my constant companion, the cross I bear alone.
