I realised my grave mistake: my marriage fell apart because of me!
My name is Eleanor Whitmore, and I live in the quiet market town of Rye, where the River Rother gently laps against the ancient walls of Kent. I grew up believing love was a magical force, capable of mending all wounds and solving every sorrow. From childhood, I dreamed of a fairy tale—of a gallant prince who would sweep in on a white steed, slay dragons for my sake, and carry me away to everlasting bliss. I waited for that miracle, convinced love would be my salvation, my purpose, my fate. But life shattered those illusions to dust, and now I see the truth: my marriage did not fail because of fate, but because of me.
I did not merely wait for a prince—I drafted an entire list of demands: handsome, clever, kind, well-read, attentive—a dozen qualities more. And then came William. When I first met him, my heart raced: here he was, my ideal! We married, and I was certain I had signed a contract for eternal happiness. But reality proved cruel. My husband did not make me happy. I did not feel loved, wanted, cherished. My fairy tale crumbled into dreary mundanity, thick with disappointment.
William was stubborn, driven, consumed by his work. After the wedding, he vanished into his projects, returning late, collapsing into bed, leaving behind piles of unwashed dishes and scattered belongings. I became a wife perpetually discontent, muttering, “Why don’t you help? Why must I carry everything alone?” His career drained him of time and energy, while I drowned in resentment, blaming him for every unhappiness. The love I had dreamed of evaporated, leaving emptiness and bitterness. Divorce seemed the only escape.
I convinced myself that parting would restore my joy. Blaming William for my loneliness, for the ruin of us, I insisted we separate. Two years of marriage collapsed like a house of cards. Not due to betrayal, not for lack of effort—we simply were not happy. After the divorce, I was alone, my mind swirling with questions: “Where did our happiness go? Did it ever exist? Why did he never care for my heart?” Then came the hardest question: “What is happiness?” And so I began to search, as though for buried treasure.
My first revelation was that happiness cannot be taken from another. It is not a gift handed to you on a silver platter. Thank heavens—otherwise, we would be puppets, dependent on another’s mercy. I wanted my own happiness, untouchable by anyone. And then it struck me: no one could make me happy. Not because I was difficult or stubborn, but because I had spent my life seeking it outside myself—in people, in praise, in a husband’s love. If I felt unwanted, it was only because I did not love or value myself.
Taking responsibility for my emotions was terrifying, but it freed me. I stopped accusing William for every gloomy day, every tear. And suddenly, I felt a strength: I was the mistress of my own life. No longer could anyone else—their words or actions—dictate how I lived or felt. I understood that emotions are not storms that crash upon you from the outside. My marriage failed because of my mistakes, the illusions I had built it upon. That was the second truth I tore from the depths of my soul.
I am a woman with a degree, ambition, dreams of a career. Yet, despite my independent spirit, I had treated marriage like a trophy. Wedlock was a goal, my husband a project to “complete,” proving my worth to myself and others. With a ring on my finger, I felt important, grown, successful—better than friends still alone. It was pride, not love. And I had deceived myself.
William was wonderful. He met every demand: clever, tall, charming, with sparks of wit in his eyes. He loved me—I know it. But when our marriage began to fray, I could not face the truth for too long: I had married him not for love, but for status. I clung to him, thinking, “Where will I find another like him?” Fear of being alone, fear of starting anew, kept me bound. But I let him go—and that fear—not at once, but after months of agonising reflection, when I finally saw who I was and what I truly wanted.
Five years have passed since the divorce. William and I are friends—both of us see where we faltered. I have no husband now, but something greater: a love for life, for myself. I cherish time with a new man, yet even more—the solitude where I learn, where I nourish my soul. I no longer waste energy on blame or bitterness. Opening my heart to joy—that has been my salvation. My marriage did not fail because of William, but because of me—because of my belief that happiness was something another could give. Now I know: it lives within, and only I can kindle it.
