**Fell for a Cosy Woman, or So What If They Talk**
*»You’re leaving me for that bumpkin?»* My wife looked utterly bewildered.
*»Please dont call her that, Linda. Its decided, Emma. Im sorry,»* I said, hastily packing my things.
*»I hope you come to your senses soon. This cant be real. What will your colleagues think? The neighbours? Some unwashed country girl? What do we tell the kids? That their refined father ran off to a farmers widow?»* Emma twisted a handkerchief in her hands, her voice laced with scorn.
*»The kids? Thank heavens theyre grown. Sophies nearly ready to marry, and Charlies already gone down his own slippery path. Were hardly their role models anymore. As for the neighbours, colleagues, random strangers on the street… I couldnt care less. Its my life. I dont peek into their bedrooms or hold a candle to their dramas.»* I tried to soften the blow, but it was no use. When a marriage falls apart, its agony for both.
Emma sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly out the window. I didnt feel an ounce of pity. Nothing. Just emptiness.
Emma was my third wife. When I first saw her, my heart flutteredthis poised, polished, confident woman. Back then, I fancied myself a bit of a Sean Connery, effortlessly charming. Plenty of options, but youth had me marrying in haste, always bolting when the shine wore off. Only with Emma did I have children.
Id thought she was my anchor, my final mooring. Alas *Melons and wives, you dont know till you slice.* Over time, love turned from juicy sweetness to a shrivelled raisin. In public, we played the perfect couplethe envy (or secret mockery?) of the neighbourhood. Grandmas on the doorstep would whisper as we passed, but we sailed by like royalty.
Behind closed doors? Different story.
First, Emma was no homemaker. The fridge was barren, laundry piled high, dust bunnies held council in every corner. Yet her nails were always manicured, her hair sleek, makeup flawless. She believed the world owed her orbit, not the other way round. My wife merely permitted herself to be loved. A self-proclaimed star, her heart locked tighteven to the kids.
We lived with my mum, who bit her tongue at the chaos until she couldnt. Wisely, she taught Sophie and Charlie to cook, clean, and care for themselves. Emma, fancying herself aristocracy (why?), called them *Sophia* and *Charles*, never a cuddle or pet name. The kids drifted to their kind, fair gran.
Emma forbade *»pointless»* chats with neighbours, offering only a frosty *»hello»* herself.
Early on, I noticed none of this. I was just happy, content with family life. Sophie aced school; Charlie scraped by. Same upbringing, polar results. By Year 10, he loathed his sisters perfectionfistfights broke out.
This was the nineties.
After school, Charlie vanished into some rough crowd. Three years, no word. We mourned, filed missing reports. Mum would mutter, *»A colt stumbles when the mare leads poorly.»* Emma would storm off to sob in the bathroom.
Then he returneda wreck. Gaunt, scarred, haunted. With him, a hollow-eyed wife. We took them in, wary of his temper. He eyed us like strangers, flinching at silence.
Sophie left soon after. She *almost* married, but the bloke never proposed. Lived with some volatile chap, covered in bruises but never complaining. *»Gran, its fine. Tom loves me. I just slipped.»* Nothing like the star pupil shed been.
And then, absurdly, I fell in love. Middle-aged folly. After shifts at the factory, home meant rows, estrangement, Mums teasing: *»Three failed marriages, feral kids, a wife who cant boil an egg»*
In the canteen worked Lindaplump, rosy-cheeked, always laughing. Her joy was contagious, her jokes effortless. A sunbeam in apron. Id eaten there for years and never *seen* her till then.
Linda was Emmas opposite: hair in a messy bun, nails short, lipstick garishly orange. But warmth radiated from her. Her flat smelled of pies; her fridge brimmed with stews, roasts, puddings. She fed half the street.
I courted her properlyflowers, films, café dates. She hesitated: *»Colin, youre married. What will your kids think? I wont be the other woman.»*
I wavered, as men do. Slipped onto thin ice. Some nights, I stayed over. Emma found out*»helpful»* neighbours saw to that. She raged, called Linda *»that grubby peasant,»* threatened suicide.
Six months later, I moved in. Linda was overjoyed but firm: *»Show me divorce papers in a month, or Im done.»* I obliged. We married. No regrets.
Sophie and Charlie visit now. Linda feeds them royally. Sophies left Tom; Charlies steadier, expecting a child. Linda reconciled them: *»Youre family. Stick together, not drift like weeds.»*
Mums gone now. Emma? Aged, her pride faded. She crosses the street to avoid me. We live two doors apart, but I never look back.
Judge me if you like. Its my life. Ill answer for itnot to gossip.
