**Fell for a Cosy Woman, or So What If They Talk**
«You’re leaving me for that bumpkin?» my wife asked, baffled.
«Dont call her that, pleaseEmily. Its decided, Margaret. Im sorry,» I said, hurriedly packing my things.
«I hope you come to your senses soon. This cant be real. What will your colleagues say? The neighbours? A man like you, running off with some scruffy, unrefined woman? What do we tell the children? That their educated father left them for a farmers daughter?» Margaret twisted a handkerchief in her hands, her voice trembling.
«The children? Thank God, theyre grown. Lucyll be thinking of marriage soon, and Charlies already on his own slippery path. They dont listen to us anymore. As for the neighbours, the colleagues, the strangers in the streetI couldnt care less. Its my life, isnt it? I dont pry into their bedrooms or hold candles for their sins.» I tried to soften the blow, but it was no use. When a marriage falls apart, both sides hurt.
Margaret sat at the kitchen window, staring blankly. I felt no pitynot a shred. My heart was hollow.
…Margaret was my third wife. When I first saw her, my heart skippedshe was beautiful, polished, self-assured. I wasnt exactly a slouch myself back then, either. Women fancied me, and I had my pick. Young and impulsive, Id fall head over heels and marry in a flash, only to bolt when the routine set in. The kidsLucy and Charlieonly came along with Margaret.
I thought shed be my forever, my anchor. But… well, you cant judge a melonor a wifeby its rind. Over time, love withered into something shrivelled and dry. In public, we played the perfect couple, the envy (or was it scorn?) of the neighbourhood. Old ladies whispered as we passed, and we glided by like royalty. But behind closed doors? A different story.
For one, Margaret was no homemaker. The fridge was always empty, laundry piled high, dust thick in every corner. Yet her nails were always manicured, her hair styled, her makeup flawless. She expected the world to revolve around her. She let herself be loved but never gave love back. The doors to her heart were lockedeven to her own children.
My mother lived with us. She held her tongue for years, watching the chaos, then stepped in wisely. Quietly, she taught Lucy and Charlie to cook, clean, and care for themselves. Margaret, acting like some high-society matron (God knows why), called them by their full namesLucinda and Charlesnever coddling them. The kids drifted from her, clinging instead to their kind, fair grandmother.
Margaret forbade me from chatting with the neighbours, dismissing it as «pointless drivel.» She herself barely managed more than a stiff «hello.»
…In the early years, I saw none of it. I was happy, content. Lucy was a straight-A student; Charlie barely scraped by. Odd, isnt it? Same upbringing, polar opposites. We tried everything to lift Charlie to even a passing grade, but he refused. By secondary school, he despised Lucy for her diligence. More than once, I had to pull them apart mid-fight.
…This was the nineties.
After school, Charlie ran off with some rough crowd and vanished. Three years without a word. We searched, grieved, resigned ourselves. Mum, eyeing Margaret, would mutter:
«The apple doesnt fall far from the tree.»
Margaret would storm off to the loo, crying.
Then, out of the blue, Charlie returnedgaunt, scarred, haunted. He brought a wife just as battered, her eyes empty. We took them in warily, afraid to cross him. He watched us sideways, jumpy, silent.
…Lucy left soon after. She never quite marriedjust moved in with some unstable bloke. No kids. Shed visit, bruised but never complaining.
«Love, ditch that brute before he kills you,» Mum pleaded.
«Its fine, Gran. Terry loves me. The bruises? Just a fall.» Lucy wasnt the bright girl shed once been.
…Then there was meold fool that I wasfalling headlong for Emily. After shifts at the factory, I dreaded going home: Charlies anger, Margarets coldness, Mums jibes about my failed marriages and wayward kids.
Emily worked in the canteenalways laughing, kind, warm. For years, Id eaten there without noticing her: round-cheeked, plump, cheerful. But her laugh? Like a babbling brook. Everything was a joke with her, sunshine itself. I started lingering, chatting. She was three years older, a widowher husband drowned years back. Shed raised her son alone; hed married and moved away for work.
Emily was Margarets opposite. Hair in a messy bun, nails short and bare, lipstick too bright. But she radiated warmth. Being with her was easy. Her flat always smelled of baking, her fridge stocked with stews and pies. She fed half the neighbourhood. How could I not fall for her?
I wooed her properlyflowers, cinema, cafés. She hesitated:
«John, I like you, but youre married. Whatll your kids think? I wont be the other woman.»
I wavered, like most men afraid to leap. Thin ice, that.
Sometimes I stayed over. Margaret guessed. The «well-wishers» filled in the detailswho, where, how long. Our affair became public. Margaret screamed, called Emily a «filthy peasant,» threatened to do herself in.
Six months later, I moved in with Emily. She was overjoyed but firm:
«Show me divorce papers in a month, or Im done.»
I did. We married. No regrets. Lucy and Charlie visit now. Emily feeds them well. Lucys left Terry; Charlies softened, expecting a child. Emily reconciled them:
«Youre family. Stick together, not drift like weeds.»
Mum passed peacefully.
Margaret? Aged, pride gone. She turns away when we meet. We live streets apart, but I never look back.
Judge me if you likeits my life. Ill answer for it myself. No use bending to others opinions.
