«You’re leaving me for that country bumpkin?» My wife stared at me, her voice trembling with disbelief.
«Dont call her that, pleaseHelens a good woman. Its decided, Emily. Im sorry.» I hurriedly packed my things, avoiding her eyes.
«Youll come to your senses. You have to. What will your colleagues say? The neighbors? A man like you, running off with some unrefined, simple woman? And the childrenwhat do we tell them? That their well-bred father left their mother for a farmers widow?» Emily clutched a handkerchief, twisting it between her fingers.
«The children? Thank God theyre grown. Sophie will be married soon, and Harrys already gone his own waydown a slippery path, no less. They dont listen to us anymore. As for the neighbors, the colleagues, the strangers on the streetI dont give a damn what they think. This is my life. I dont pry into their bedrooms or hold a candle to their secrets.» I wanted to soften the blow, to make her understand.
It wasnt working. When a marriage crumbles, the pain cuts both ways.
Emily sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly out the window. I felt nothing for her. Nothing. A hollow emptiness filled my chest.
Emily was my third wife. When I first saw her, my heart flutteredshe was beautiful, poised, self-assured. I wasnt so bad myself back then, thought I could charm any woman. Plenty had tried. In my youth, I fell in love fast and married faster. Disillusioned by the grind of daily life, I always fled. Only with Emily did I have childrenSophie and Harry.
For years, I believed she was my anchor, my last refuge. But time proved otherwise. Like a melon gone bad, what seemed sweet turned shriveled and rotten. In public, we played the perfect coupleneighbors whispered, half-admiring, half-scornful, as we strode past like royalty.
Behind closed doors, it was different.
Emily was no homemaker. The fridge was always empty, laundry piled high, dust thick in every corner. Yet her nails were always manicured, her hair immaculate, her makeup flawless. She believed the world revolved around her, that love was something she deserved, not something she gave. Her heart was lockedeven to the children.
My mother lived with us. For years, she bit her tongue, watching the chaos. Then, with quiet wisdom, she stepped in. She taught Sophie and Harry to cook, to clean, to care for themselves. Emily, fancying herself high society (God knows why), called them by their full namesSophia and Haroldnever coddling them. The children drifted from her, clinging instead to their grandmothers kindness.
Emily forbade me from speaking to neighbors»pointless chatter,» she called it. She offered nothing more than a stiff «hello.»
In the early years, I saw none of this. I was happy, content, blind to the cracks. Sophie was a star pupil; Harry, a hopeless troublemaker. How could two children, raised the same, turn out so opposite? No matter how we tried, Harry refused to study. By secondary school, he despised Sophie for her diligence. More than once, I had to pull them apart.
This was the 90s.
After school, Harry vanishedcaught up with some gang, gone without a trace. For three years, we heard nothing. Reported him missing, grieved, moved on. As my mother would mutter, glancing at Emily:
«A fool falls from grace when his mother fails to guide him.»
Emily would scoff, locking herself in the bathroom, her muffled sobs echoing through the house.
Then, just as suddenly, Harry returned. Gaunt, scarred, haunted. He brought a wife just as brokenhollow-eyed, wary. We took them in, too afraid to question him, too afraid to refuse. He watched us with suspicion, flinched at silence.
Sophie left soon after, shackled to some brute who left her bruised but silent.
«Sophie, love, leave him,» my mother pleaded. «Hell kill you one day. Rememberif you want suffering, youll find a tormentor.»
But Sophie only smiled. «Its fine, Gran. Tom loves me. The bruises? Just a fall.» She was a ghost of the girl shed been.
And then there was me, old fool that I was, falling in love again.
After shifts at the factory, I dreaded going homeHarrys tension, Emilys coldness, my mothers weary sighs. Three failed marriages, wayward children, a hopeless wifewhat was left?
Helen worked in the factory canteenwarm, cheerful, always laughing. A plump, rosy-cheeked woman, older than me by three years, widowed young, her son long gone to work abroad.
She was everything Emily wasnt. Hair in a messy bun, nails unpainted, lips stained with carrot-coloured lipstick. Yet she shonekind, welcoming, at ease in her own skin. Her flat smelled of fresh pies, her fridge never empty. She fed neighbours, friends, anyone who needed it.
I courted her properlyflowers, cinema dates, cafés.
At first, she resisted.
«John, I like you, but youre married. What will your children think? I wont be the other woman.»
I wavered, like any man afraid to take the leap.
Some nights, I stayed with her. Emily knew, of coursebusybodies made sure of that. She raged, called Helen names, threatened to harm herself.
Six months later, I packed my bags. Helen was overjoyed but firm:
«John, bring me divorce papers in a month, or this ends.»
I did. We married. No regrets.
Sophie and Harry visit now. Helen feeds them, fusses over them. Sophie finally left that brute; Harry, steadier, softer, is expecting a child. Maybe hed seen enough darkness.
Helen even reconciled them.
«Youre family. Stick together. Dont drift like lost weeds.»
Now, brother and sister stand united.
My mother passed peacefully.
Emily? Age has stripped her of her pride. She turns away when we pass. We live streets apart, but I never look back.
Judge me if you willthis is my life, my choices. Ill answer for them. I wont bend to anyone elses rules.
