❝𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐦𝐬❞

A Wife's Heartbreak

Dear Edward,

I find myself sitting here, quill in hand, trying to compose thoughts that have been tumbling in my mind like an uncontrollable storm. I had hoped—no, trusted—that what I suspected was mere imagination, a fleeting moment of doubt that I could silence with reason. But alas, my heart is broken, and I write this with the painful knowledge that everything I thought we had is, quite frankly, a lie.

I have come to know the truth, Edward, and I cannot ignore it any longer. It was brought to me in whispers, in quiet truths that seemed so fantastical at first. But, much to my horror, they were not lies. You—my husband—have been unfaithful, not just once, but repeatedly, to me, with a woman who was nothing more than a prostitute in London. I cannot fathom the betrayal that you must have felt in your own heart when you chose to lie to me, to hold me in the darkness, while you shared yourself with her.

You think me naive, perhaps? You thought I would never uncover your indiscretions, or that my love for you would somehow shield me from the truth. But you were mistaken, Edward. I am not blind. I am not a fool. You might have fooled me for a time, but now I see everything. The late nights, the sudden silences, the unexplained absences—they were not what you claimed them to be.

It wounds me deeply to know that you could treat me—your wife, the woman who has stood by you through every triumph and failure—as though I were a mere inconvenience to your selfish desires. I will not beg for your remorse, nor will I listen to your hollow explanations. I am no longer interested in your justifications, for they do not matter now. What matters is the shame of what you have done, and the respect you have stolen from me.

I am leaving, Edward. I do not know where I will go, but I know it will be far from you. This marriage is over. You have broken something within me that can never be mended, and I will no longer allow you to continue to deceive me, nor will I be complicit in the charade you've woven. There is no return from this, not for us, not for the trust that has been shattered.

I am not angry, Edward. I am not even hurt, not in the way you might think. I am simply numb, exhausted from carrying the weight of your lies and your betrayal. I am done.

Goodbye.

Yours, once,
Charlotte