The letter you wish he'd write.

Losing Her—And It’s My Fault

I never thought I’d be here, typing out these thoughts, but here I am, sitting in the quiet house that used to feel like a home. Lately, it’s felt more like a battlefield, and the worst part? I’m the one holding the grenade.

She’s slipping away from me, my wife. And it’s not because of some outside force or unforeseen tragedy. It’s because of me—the way I’ve acted, the way I’ve let her down over and over again. I’ve been childish, and now I’m paying for it.

For a long time, I didn’t see it. Or maybe I just didn’t want to. I used to think everything was her fault. She was too critical, too demanding, too cold. But looking back, I can see how wrong I was.

When she’d try to talk to me—really talk, about something important—I’d shut down. I didn’t want to deal with it. I’d go silent, check out, pretend the conversation wasn’t happening. It was easier to avoid the hard stuff than to face it. I thought I was keeping the peace, but in reality, I was building a wall between us. And every time I shut her out, that wall got higher.

When things went wrong, I pointed the finger at her. I didn’t take responsibility for my actions. If I forgot something, it was because she didn’t remind me. If the house was a mess, it was because she didn’t ask me to help. Every time she called me out, I’d twist it around and make her the bad guy.

It was easier to blame her than admit I’d screwed up. Admitting fault meant acknowledging that I had to change, and I didn’t want to. I liked being comfortable. I liked things being easy for me. But now, I see that taking the easy road was killing our relationship.

I’ve always taken pride in being the “provider.” I work hard, bring home the paycheck, and thought that should be enough. But I didn’t think about the other work—the work that goes into keeping a house running, a family functioning. 

She’d ask me to help with chores, and I’d roll my eyes or do the bare minimum, acting like I was doing her some huge favor. But while I was sitting on the couch, scrolling through my phone, she was running around like a one-woman show—cleaning, cooking, taking care of the kids. I just assumed it was her job to handle everything at home because I was too wrapped up in myself to see that she needed help.

And the kids? I’m ashamed to say it, but I’ve picked at them too. I’d get frustrated over small things—whether it was them being too loud, too slow, or just not doing what I asked immediately. Instead of guiding them, I’d nag or snap, and when they looked up at me with those confused, hurt faces, I felt like a failure. I’d tell myself I was just being a dad, but deep down, I knew I was wrong.

One of the worst parts? I’d make jokes at her expense. We’d be out with friends, and I’d throw in some “harmless” jab about her nagging or her being too uptight. I thought I was being funny, lightening the mood. But I wasn’t. I was tearing her down in front of others, making her feel small and disrespected. Those jokes cut deeper than I realized, and now, I don’t think she’ll ever forget them.

When she’d finally had enough and tried to confront me about everything, I’d turn it around on her. "Well, maybe I wouldn’t act this way if you were nicer." That was my go-to line. As if her being “nicer” would somehow make me step up and be the husband I should’ve been all along.

But the truth is, it wasn’t her. It was me. I didn’t want to face the fact that I was the problem, so I shifted the blame. I refused to see that she was already doing more than her fair share—emotionally, physically, and mentally—while I was stuck in my own selfish habits.

Now, she’s done. I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. She’s exhausted. I’ve pushed her away for so long that I don’t know if she’ll ever come back. And that scares the hell out of me.

She’s not the same. I can see it every day. The spark that used to light up a room, the easy smile, the way she’d laugh—it's all faded. And I know it’s because of me.

I’ve worn her down. The constant arguments, the jokes at her expense, shutting her out when she tried to talk—all of it chipped away at who she used to be. She doesn’t look at me the same anymore. The love and trust that were there? Gone. Now it’s just distance.

She’s tired—tired of trying, tired of carrying the weight while I acted like it wasn’t my problem. She’s stopped telling me things, stopped opening up. I’ve turned into the guy she’s just trying to get through the day with, instead of the partner I was supposed to be.

It’s hard to admit, but I broke her down. The woman I married is still in there, but I buried her under my own selfishness. And if I don’t get my act together soon, I’m going to lose her for good.

But this isn’t a plea for sympathy. This is me owning up to the damage I’ve caused. I’ve been childish, irresponsible, and immature. I thought I could get away with it, that she’d always stay, but no one deserves to be treated the way I’ve treated her.

I don’t know what the future holds for us. I’m not sure if I can fix this, or if she even wants me to. But I do know one thing: I’m done hiding behind excuses. I’m done blaming her for my behavior. It’s time to grow up. And maybe, just maybe, it’s not too late to become the man she deserved from the start.