**Diary Entry**
I finally faced my fatal mistake: my marriage fell apart because of me.
My name is Eleanor Whitmore, and I live in the quiet town of Sturminster, where the River Stour gently flows past the ancient walls of Dorset. I grew up believing love was some magical force, a cure for all wounds and the answer to every sorrow. Since childhood, I dreamed of a fairytale—a dashing knight on a white horse, slaying dragons for me, sweeping me into a world of endless bliss. I waited for that miracle, convinced love would be my salvation, my purpose, my fate. But life shattered those illusions, and now I see the truth—my marriage failed not by chance, but by my own doing.
I didn’t just wait for a prince—I had a whole checklist for him: handsome, kind, intelligent, educated, attentive—dozens of boxes to tick. Then came Oliver. When I met him, my heart raced—here was my ideal! We married, and I truly believed I’d signed a contract for everlasting joy. Reality, though, was harsh. My husband didn’t make me happy. I didn’t feel loved, wanted, cherished. My fairytale crumbled into dreary routine, heavy with disappointment.
Oliver was stubborn, ambitious, obsessed with his career. After the wedding, he vanished into work, coming home late, collapsing into bed, leaving dishes in the sink and clothes strewn about. I became a nagging wife, endlessly snapping, “Why don’t you help? Why must I do everything?” His job drained him, while I drowned in resentment, blaming him for all my unhappiness. The love I’d dreamed of evaporated, leaving only emptiness and bitterness. Divorce seemed the only way out.
I convinced myself I’d find happiness again if we split. Blaming Oliver for my loneliness, for our failed marriage, I demanded the end. Two years together collapsed like a house of cards—no affairs, no screaming matches, just quiet misery. Alone after the divorce, my mind swirled with questions: “Where did our happiness go? Did it ever exist? Why didn’t he care about my feelings?” Then came the biggest one: “What even is happiness?” I began searching, as if hunting for lost treasure.
My first realisation? Happiness isn’t something you take from someone else. It’s not a gift handed to you on a silver platter. And thank goodness—otherwise, we’d be puppets, dependent on others’ whims. I wanted happiness that belonged to me, untouchable. Then it hit me: no one could make me happy. Not because I was difficult, but because I’d spent my life seeking it outside myself—in people, in praise, in my husband’s love. If I felt unwanted, it was because I didn’t love or value myself.
Taking responsibility for my own emotions was terrifying, but it set me free. I stopped blaming Oliver for every bad day, every tear. Suddenly, I felt a surge of strength: I was the captain of my life. No one else—not their words or actions—could dictate how I lived or felt. Emotions weren’t storms crashing down on me—they were mine to steer. My marriage failed because of me—my illusions, the shaky foundation I’d built it on. That was my second hard truth, dragged up from the depths.
I’m a woman with a degree, ambitions, career dreams. Yet, for all my so-called independence, I saw marriage as a trophy. Wedding vows were a checkbox; my husband, a project to “complete,” proving my worth to myself and others. A ring made me feel accomplished, grown-up—better than my single friends. It was pride, not love. And I fooled myself.
Oliver was wonderful—he ticked every box: smart, tall, charming, with that glint of humour in his eyes. He loved me—I know he did. But when our marriage began crumbling, I refused to face the truth—I’d married him for status, not love. I clung to him, thinking, “Where would I find another like him?” Fear of being alone, of starting over, paralysed me. But I let go—not easily, but after months of wrenching self-reflection—once I truly knew who I was and what I wanted.
Five years have passed since the divorce. Oliver and I are friends now—both aware of where we went wrong. I don’t have a husband, but I have something better: love for life, for myself. I enjoy time with a new partner, but even more, I cherish solitude—learning, growing, feeding my soul. I no longer waste energy on blame or searching for someone to fix me. Opening my heart to joy—that’s what saved me. My marriage didn’t fail because of Oliver—it failed because of me, because I expected someone else to hand me happiness. Now I know: it lives within, and only I can light the flame.