My dear lady, you are the sole beneficiary in my will, Edward Morley said, kissing my hand and handing me the document.
His words warmed me, deepening my respect for my English husband. I had never needed prenuptial agreements or insurance; I trusted in his honour and humanity. How foolish that trust proved to be.
I had first met Edward through an online correspondence. I longed to marry a foreigner. I lived in Manchester, already retired, and a marriage to a peer of my age seemed impossiblethere was no desire to tend an ailing father or to stay rooted in one place. Abroad, the elderly appeared vivacious, travelling, and full of life.
Edward was seventysix; I was fiftyfive, exactly the same age as his daughter, Mabel.
Our letters continued for a year, during which we grew accustomed to each others temperaments. Soon I travelled to York, determined to become Edwards wife. An imposing, wellkept gentleman greeted me at the station, clutching a modest bouquet of slightly wilted roses. I thought of returning home, but the drama had just begun. The roses, now scentless, fell from my hands the moment I tried to arrange them.
Edward drove me to his grand house, where a modest twoperson lunch awaited. I asked for a vase for the sad roses; he handed me a glass of water. The moment I placed the flowers inside, all the petals scattereda sign, perhaps, from above.
Both of us sensed that love was a futile pursuit. I needed financial security; Edward needed a companion to look after him. Two lonely seniors had found a convenient match. He promised to name me the sole heir to all his property upon his death. As it turned out, a promise is not a deed.
We were married shortly thereafter, and I became Mrs. Morley. The ceremony was modest, attended only by Edwards daughter Mabel with her husband and three children, and a family couple we knew. I was his third wife. In his first marriage he had two twin daughters, Mabel and Blythe, though he had always opposed having children, preferring a life of selfdevelopment and travel. His first wife, against his wishes, bore the twins. He grew to love the girls, yet he never forgave his wifes defiance.
When the twins turned eighteen, Edward left the family in protest. His first wife could not survive the separation; she died in her sleep two years later. All his assetsa threestorey house, a country villa, three cars, and his businesswere bequeathed to the twins. He even transferred his company to Mabel.
Edward then courted an older spinster, Agnes, who likewise had no wish for children. She was seven years his senior. Their arrangement was smooth until Agnes fell ill. Edward tended to her with tenderness, giving massages, feeding her, changing her pads until her final breath.
Soon after, tragedy struck again. Mabel was found dead on a roadside under mysterious circumstances; her killer was never identified. Alone and despondent, Edward slipped into depression. During this bleak period, his surviving daughter Blythe never visited him. After a short recovery, Edward resolved to marry again, brimming with renewed vigor. An online dating site introduced him to me, and our married life as Mrs. Morley began.
All the finances belonged to Edward, and he proved a miser. He gave the bare minimum for groceries, scrutinised every receipt, and demanded a written account of any purchase. When I asked for a little money for pins or lipstick, he grimaced as if Id asked for a lemon. Still, each year we set sail on cruises and took excursions Edwards lifelong dream.
I treated Edward kindly, felt pity for his age, learned his favourite recipes, looked after his health, and stayed by his side in both sorrow and joy. Yet a cruel illness awaited him: a stroke. Ambulance rushed him to intensive care, and I immediately called his daughter. She arrived not to see her father, but to see me:
Claire, Ive brought Dads will. Listen to this: All movable and immovable property I bequeath to my daughter. To my wife, a sum sufficient for a respectable life, as determined by my daughter.
It meant Edward had secretly altered his will in favour of Mabel, hoping to ease his guilt over abandoning his first family and feeling responsible for Mabels death. Blythe, holding a grudge, never came to see her father, remaining strangers to his three grandchildren.
I spent six months caring for Edward in hospital, feeding him with a spoon, gently stroking his hand, and talking to him. He no longer recognised anyone; he lived in his own world. I had no intention of contesting the will with his entrepreneurial daughter. Blythe never visited, and Edward, aged eightytwo, eventually passed away.
A week after his funeral, Blythe appeared at the front door of the house we had shared:
Claire, you must leave this house immediately. Ill give you a sum to rent a modest flat, then you can apply for council housing. Id return to my own country if I were you. Nothing here is yours any longer.
I could already picture myself shivering on the street, hungry and cold.
Dont tell me what to do, Blythe, I replied, still raw from my husbands death. Im not ready to decide yet. Lets speak later.
Six months later, lawyers advised me that a lawsuit would be futile and the legal costs would be astronomical. Although I was entitled to fifty per cent of the estate, the altered will nullified my claim. I still lived in Edwards house, a fact that infuriated Blythe:
Get out, Claire. Youve taken advantage of an old, mindless man, and now you think you can stay? Hand over the inheritance!
In a sudden flash of inspiration, I produced the original will from the desk:
Blythe, here is the first will where Edward clearly left everything to me. I can prove in court that he was suffering from senile dementia when he rewrote it, perhaps under duress. Prove it if you can
Blythe fell silent, pondering my words.
Thus I rented a cheap room in a modest part of York, drove Edwards car when I could, and survived on the meagre funds Blythe grudgingly allowed. Eventually, I married Pierre, a widower I met while jogging in the park with his dog Baxter. I now run in the park daily, keeping fit and in good shape.
The lesson I have learned, after years of misplaced trust and bitter battles, is simple: love alone does not guarantee security, and the promise of a bright future should be backed by careful eyes and a steady mind. A prudent heart guards both affection and assets, for reliance on others without wisdom can leave you standing on the very street you once feared.
