29April
I never imagined Id be writing this, but here I am, scribbling in my notebook as the evening light drifts over the garden of the old cottage that belongs to my motherinlaw. It feels strange to call this place home when it never truly was.
Want to get married, you say? Well, youll have to be patient. If your bellys already jutting out above your nose, youre officially an adult, my motherinlaw, Margaret, declared one damp afternoon, her voice flat as a kitchen table. Shed noticed the roundness under my shirt, the way my hips were beginning to carry a secret. I was only seventeen, yet the world around me seemed to have already decided my fate.
We all learned very quickly who the father of my unborn child would be.
Ive loved James for as long as I can remember. I first saw him on the first day of September in Year7, when we were both awkward teenagers scrambling for a seat in the back row. The summer stretched on, the boys grew taller, a little wiser, but they were still just boys. We swapped books, whispered jokes, skipped lessons together the ordinary chaos of school life.
James was the taller, quicker, betterateverything kid. Thats when I fell for him, silently, because I didnt think it proper to shout about my feelings and he never seemed to notice. Then, one day, he finally did, and we spent a few stolen afternoons together, laughing in the quiet corners of the playground.
The truth about my condition could not stay hidden for long. Both families met, arguments were brief, and within weeks the wedding was arranged. I was thrilled, naive, and completely unprepared for what lay ahead.
Our married life began under the roof of the Whitfield house, Margarets domain. James was the oldest of three children; his two sisters were still at primary school, so he had to start working straight away.
Now youve shown you can make a child, prove youre a man, my motherinlaw snapped one evening. We have two daughters already, and were not going to support your wife or your baby.
For me, adulthood arrived in the form of endless chores. I gave up my studies, couldnt even find a job as a cleaner they said I was already taken care of by the family. The house became my prison. The Whitfield sisters laughed, relieved that the dishes, the floors, the dusting no longer fell on them. They even tried to make my life harder: leaving extra dirty plates, scattering crumbs, smudging the cupboards with mysterious stains. I tried not to complain; there was no one to hear me.
James worked long hours and seemed indifferent to the turmoil at home. He didnt even bother to spend any time with me; he married under his parents pressure, not love. I tried speaking with Margaret, but our conversations turned into cold silences.
One night, while I was halfasleep, I thought about the words she had muttered when I first announced my pregnancy: If you want to be married, youll have to endure it. Your bellys already above your nose that means youre an adult now. I laughed bitterly at the irony; I was far from happy. I could have run away if it werent for the baby, but life had other plans.
Help with the child never came, chores never stopped. James arrived home later and later, sometimes not at all. I guessed who he was seeing, though I never confirmed it. The walls of the cottage felt tighter each day; I wept at night, wondering what the future held for a girl whose name was now synonymous with servant.
One weekend, Jamess sister, Irene Whitfield, arrived from London. She seemed stern, an almost invisible overseer who watched everything with a tightlipped mouth. I tried my best to keep the house in order; everything I did was flawless, yet Irene always found a fault to point out to Margaret. Meanwhile, James felt free to leave for dates without a second thought. Margaret argued with him, but she could do nothing.
Marry me against my will! Now youll have to live with my wife, James replied coldly, and walked out.
Irene observed everything. Two weeks slipped by slowly, then I heard that she was planning to leave.
Whats the point of coming back after five years? Margaret muttered, halfwhispering as Irene packed her suitcase. What are you looking for?
The next morning, everyone headed to work. I offered to see Irene to the bus stop.
Ive been watching your family, she said, settling into a seat beside me. You look exhausted, your eyes have dark circles, youre barely holding on. How do you manage this, love? And have you heard about David?
I nodded.
Dont go anywhere. Pack a bag, come with me. Youll get a break from all this.
What if they wont let me back? Ill have nowhere to go.
Well sort that out. Ill wait by the house with a wheelbarrow. Money wont be an issue; I have a ticket to Brighton. In two hours a car will be here. Dont forget anything. You likely wont have to return. Ill fill you in on the way.
The car pulled up to the gate of a modest but tidy cottage, far nicer than Margarets. The driver parked, stepped out, and handed the keys to the house.
This is the neighbour, he said. I cant drive at the moment, so sometimes I ask him for a lift. If you ever want a licence, Ill help you. Make yourself at home, get settled. Your room is on the right.
After a short rest, Irene began her tale.
My sister had a daughter who went off to university and later died in a climbing accident. She was into extreme sports, loved river descents. The first expedition ended in tragedy, and after that my husband left me. I was alone, so I came to my sister for support and to settle her estate.
She sighed. My sister told me there was no room for us. James married you, your child, his sisters daughters everything rests on you. They dont understand that. My sister expected everyone to do everything for her. They dumped everything onto you. James doesnt love you. I know all this. No one will help you, not even your parents.
I wanted to leave the house to James, thinking hed be a proper husband, a family man, but he Ive decided. Hold on a little longer; this will all be yours. Its time to file for divorce.
There was about a year left on my contract with Margaret, I thought. We could manage. Call me Aunt Irene, she said, and the house would be yours.
What will they say? I asked.
Dont worry about them. They have enough of their own problems. Keep strong, you have a daughter.
Irene stayed just over a year before she passed away. I divorced James; he remarried quickly. Former relatives came to her funeral, their faces tight with disapproval. James even tried to reconcile, but the road back was gone.
Now I live in a small bungalow with my daughter, Emma. I finally earned my driving licence, Im studying parttime at the university, and most importantly, Im learning how to live on my own. It feels like a fresh start, and I love it.
Life has a way of handing down legacies not to the selfish, but to those with a good heart. Perhaps thats the only thing that truly matters.
Emily.
