«You’re leaving me for some country bumpkin?» My wife, Eleanor, stared at me in disbelief.
«Its decided, Eleanor. Please dont call her that. Im sorry.» I tossed my belongings into a suitcase, hands shaking.
«Youll come to your senses. You have to. What will your colleagues say? The neighbours? A man like yourunning off with some unpolished nobody? And the childrenwhat do we tell them? That their educated father left their mother for a farmers widow?» She twisted a handkerchief between her fingers, knuckles white.
«The children are grown, Eleanor. Emily will marry soon, and James… well, hes already chosen his path. They dont need us anymore. As for the neighbours, the colleaguesI dont care what they think. Its my life. I dont pry into their affairs.» I tried to keep my voice steady, but the words felt hollow.
They always do when a marriage shatters.
Eleanor turned away, staring blankly out the kitchen window. I felt nothing. No guilt, no sorrowjust emptiness.
…Eleanor was my third wife. When we first met, my heart had racedshe was elegant, poised, the kind of woman who turned heads. I wasnt bad-looking myself back then, with plenty of admirers. Young and reckless, Id married swiftly, only to grow restless each time. The children came only with Eleanor.
For a while, I thought she was my anchor, my last harbour. But time withers even the sweetest fruit. In public, we played the perfect coupleneighbours murmured, some envious, others disdainful. We walked past the gossiping old ladies by the doorstep as if on a red carpet.
Behind closed doors, the truth was uglier.
Eleanor was no homemaker. The fridge stood empty, laundry piled high, dust gathering in the corners. Yet her nails were always manicured, her hair flawless. She believed the world revolved around her. She allowed love but never gave it. The doors to her heart were lockedeven to our children.
My mother lived with us. For years, she watched in silence before gently teaching Emily and James what Eleanor wouldntcooking, cleaning, self-respect. Eleanor, fancying herself high society, called them by their full namesnever a term of endearment. The children clung to their grandmother instead.
Eleanor forbade me from speaking to the neighbours beyond a stiff «hello.» She regarded idle chatter as beneath her.
…In the early years, I hadnt noticed. I was happyblissfully blind. Emily was top of her class; James scraped by. How could two children raised the same turn out so differently? No matter how we pushed, James refused to learn. By secondary school, he despised Emily for her diligence. More than once, I pulled them apart mid-fight.
…It was the nineties.
After school, James vanishedmixed up with some rough lot. Three years without a word. We searched, mourned, and finally accepted the loss. My mother would glance at Eleanor and mutter:
«An apple doesnt fall far from the tree.»
Eleanor would storm off, lock herself in the bathroom, and sob.
Then, just as suddenly, James returneda shadow of himself. Gaunt, scarred, haunted. He brought a wifeequally broken. We took them in, wary of his temper. He watched us with suspicion, flinching at silence.
…Emily left soon after. She moved in with some bruteno wedding, just bruises she blamed on clumsiness.
«Leave him, love,» my mother begged. «Hell kill you one day.»
But Emily just smiled. «He loves me, Nan.»
She was nothing like the bright girl shed once been.
…And then there was meold fool that I wasfalling in love again.
After shifts at the factory, I dreaded going homeJamess anger, Eleanors coldness, my mothers quiet disappointment.
Then I noticed Gladys. The canteen cookalways laughing, warm, kind. Id eaten her meals for years without seeing her. But once I didher rosy cheeks, her untidy bun, nails blunt and unvarnishedI couldnt look away. She was light itself.
With her, everything was easy. Her flat smelled of fresh bread, her fridge always full. She fed neighbours, friends, anyone who knocked.
I courted her properlyflowers, cinema dates, cafés.
At first, she hesitated.
«Youve a wife, Colin. And children. I wont be the other woman.»
I wavered, like any coward on thin ice.
Some nights, I stayed with her. Eleanor knewbusybodies made sure of it. She raged, called Gladys names, threatened suicide.
Six months later, I left.
Gladys was overjoyed but firm: «Bring me the divorce papers, or its over.»
I did. We married. No regrets.
Emily and James visit now. Gladys feeds them, mothers them. James looks healthiersoon to be a father himself. Emily left that brute. Gladys brought them back together:
«Youre family. Stick together.»
They do now.
My mother passed peacefully.
Eleanor? Age has humbled her. She still turns away when we cross paths. We live streets apart, but I never look back.
Let them judge. Its my life. Ill answer for itno one else.
