**Diary Entry: Love in Later Life**
*»You’re leaving me for that country bumpkin?» Emilys voice trembled with disbelief.*
*»Dont call her that, please. Its decided, Emily. Im sorry,» I muttered, hastily packing my things.*
*»Youll come to your senses. Its impossible otherwise. What will your colleagues think? The neighbours? A man like you, running off with some unpolished simpleton. And the childrenwhat do we tell them? That their educated father abandoned them for a farmhands widow?» Emily twisted a handkerchief in her hands, her knuckles white.*
*»The children? Theyre grown, thank God. Sarah will be marrying soon, and David well, hes chosen his own path. As for the neighbours, the colleagues, strangers in the streetI couldnt care less. Its my life. I dont pry into their bedrooms or hold candles for their sins.» I tried to soften the blow, but theres no gentle way to end a marriage. The pain cuts both ways.*
Emily sat at the kitchen window, hollow-eyed. I felt nothing for her. Nothing at all. Just emptiness.
She was my third wife. When we met, my heart had leaptshe was beautiful, polished, self-assured. I was no slouch myself back then, with my pick of admirers. In my youth, I fell hard and married fast, only to flee when reality set in. The children came only with Emily. I thought shed be my last harbour, my anchor. But time strips illusions bare. Love, once ripe and sweet, withers into something dry and tasteless. In public, we played the perfect coupleneighbours admired (or pitied?) our quiet, respectable household. Passing the old gossips at the front gate, wed hear their whispers, chin held high as if on a red carpet.
Behind closed doors, the truth festered.
Emily was no homemaker. The fridge stood empty, laundry piled high, dust thick in the corners. Yet her nails were always manicured, her hair sleek, her makeup fresh. She believed the world owed her devotion, not the other way around. She allowed herself to be loved but gave none in return. The doors to her heart were boltedeven to the children.
My mother lived with us. She bore the mess in silence until she couldnt, then stepped in wisely. Gently, she taught Sarah and David to cook, clean, and care for themselves. Emily, fancying herself aristocracy (God knows why), called them by their full namesnever a term of endearment. The children drifted from her, clinging instead to their warm, steady grandmother.
Emily forbade idle chats with neighbours, offering only curt nods. I hadnt noticed any of this in the early years. I was content, or so I thought. Sarah aced every exam; David scraped by, defiantly refusing to learn. By secondary school, he loathed his sister for her diligence. More than once, I pulled them apart mid-fight.
Those were the nineties.
After school, David vanished into some gang. Three years passed without wordmissing, mourned. My mother, eyeing Emily, would mutter, *»The apple doesnt fall far from the tree.»* Emily would storm off to the bathroom, sobbing.
Then, out of nowhere, he returneda shadow of himself, gaunt, scarred, trailing a hollow-eyed wife. We took them in, wary of his temper. He watched us sidelong, flinching at silence.
Sarah left soon after. She moved in with some brute, returning bruised but silent. *»Leave him,»* Gran begged. *»Hell kill you one day.»* Sarah would smile weakly. *»Its fine. I slipped on the stairs.»* The star pupil was gone.
And then, against all sense, I fell in love again.
At the factory canteen, there was Margaretplump, rosy-cheeked, always laughing. Id eaten there for years and never noticed her until one day, her joy caught me. She was everything Emily wasnt: hair in a messy bun, nails short, lips painted carrot-orange. Her flat smelled of fresh pies; her fridge, always full. She fed neighbours, friends, anyone who crossed her threshold. Being near her was like drinking from a clear spring.
I courted her properlyflowers, cinema dates, cafés. She hesitated. *»Youve a wife, John. What of your children?»* For months, I wavered. Some nights, I stayed with her. Emily guessed. The gossips made sure of it.
Six months later, I moved out. Margaret made me promise: *»Bring me divorce papers within the month, or its over.»* I did. We married. No regrets.
Sarah visits now, free of that brute. Davids steadier, expecting a child. Margaret brought them together: *»Youre family. Lean on each other, not the world.»*
Mothers gone. Emilys aged, her pride withered. We pass like strangers.
Let them talk. Its my life. My choices. My peace. I walk now with Margaret through the market, her hand warm in mine, buying carrots and apples, talking nonsense to the butchers dog. We eat early, laugh loud, go to bed content. The house hums with lifekettles singing, radios playing old tunes, the scent of cinnamon in the air. When I wake, her face is the first I see, and it is enough.
