«Better to be a Beloved Wife Than a Perfect Daughter»
«Lydia, chooseeither me or your parents!» This time, my husband was firm, his voice leaving no room for argument.
«Edmund, you know Id follow you to the ends of the earth. But dont shut out my parents. You called them ‘old’ yourselfhave some mercy.»
«I want nothing to do with them! If youre such a devoted daughter, go visit them,» he shot back, glaring at me.
My first marriage was to a man whod served in Afghanistan. Simon seemed brave, unshakablea decorated major, a seasoned soldier.
Our son, Oliver, was born soon after. My parents adored their son-in-law and grandson.
«Lydia, love, your mum and I can rest easy now. Simons a good man. Weve handed you to safe handsdont let us down,» Dad would say, never missing a chance to praise my husband.
But Simon barely noticed Oliver. The boy would reach for him, only for Simon to brush him offoff fishing, meeting army mates, or just «not in the mood.» Over time, Oliver stopped trying.
Things got worse. Simons depression turned violent. One night, drunk out of his mind, he staggered into Olivers room in full uniform, waving his service revolver. That was it. I couldnt risk our lives anymore. We divorced amicablyhis PTSD had shattered him.
My parents? They tore into me.
«What kind of wife throws away a man like that? Youll regret this! Mark our words!»
Spoiler: I didnt. Simon remarried years latera deaf woman. Meanwhile, I met Edmund.
He was a regional manager, charming, polished, ten years younger. We clashed at firstprofessional differencesbut then he kissed my hand and invited me to dinner.
«Lydia, let me take you out. Ill drive you home after.»
Oliver was with my parents. Why not?
One dinner became many. Passion flared. Edmund was divorced, with a seven-year-old daughter.
My parents would *hate* himtoo young, too flashy, «green behind the ears.» But I didnt care. I loved him fiercely.
«Mum, Dad, Im remarrying. Edmunds taking us all to dinner.»
Their jaws dropped.
«*This* is a joke, right? We thought youd patch things up with Simon! What about Oliver?»
«Simon forgot Oliver existed. End of story. Meet my fiancé tomorrowand *dont* bring up my ex.»
Edwin arrived with gifts and a proposal:
«After the wedding, lets live together. Youre not getting any youngerwell be there to help. What do you say?»
Dad scratched his head.
«Where, though? Weve got our little flat, Lydias got hers from Simon What about you?»
Edwin grinned. «Ill build us a three-storey house. Plenty of room for everyone.»
The wedding was lavish. A Mediterranean cruise followed. Edmund treated Oliver like his own. His daughter, though? Cold as icewhispering in his ear, glaring at me.
Three years later, the house was finished. Ground-floor suite for my parents, top floor for Oliver («let the lad burn energy»), our bedroom in the middle. A summer kitchen, triple garageeverything perfect.
Gifts piled up: a motorbike for Olivers 18th, a Mercedes for my 40th, spa trips for Mum, a fishing boat for Dad.
Yet they *still* carped. Endless snipes about Edmund. He ignored it:
«Let them gossip, Lydia. Ive done right by them. But theyll always compare me to Saint Simon.»
Then Oliver brought home a girlVeronica. No introduction, just: «Shes moving in.»
«Who *is* she? Your fiancée?» I asked.
Oliver dragged her upstairs without a word. Fine. His life.
But Veronica was trouble.
«Lydia, we want the second floor. Im pregnant.» She lounged at *my* table, smoking, drinking *my* coffee. No «Mrs.»just «Lydia.»
«Respect your elders, or the doors that way.»
She screeched for Oliver. Next thing I knew, he *shoved* meI cracked my head on the table. Concussion. Hospital.
Edmund called the police. I lied»I slipped.»
The betrayal gutted me. My boy, choosing *her* over me. (Turns out? No baby.)
I forgave him. «Mums lad» on his knees, begging. Foolish me.
That night, Edmund dropped the bombshell:
«Veronica crawled into our bed while you were gone.»
*What.*
«Oliver was passed out drunk. I kicked her out.»
Do I tell Oliver? Hed never believe me.
Then my parents stirred the pot:
«Edwins a womanizer! Dump him!»
The lies wore us down. We fought. Edwin left.
A month later, a friend «helpfully» reported: «Saw Edwin with some blonde!»
Idiot. A man like him? Of course vultures circled.
I reeled him back. The «blonde» was his daughterstill single at 25, too career-driven.
But Edwin had conditions:
«Choose, Lydia: me or your parents. Otherwise, were done.»
Heartbreaking. Mum and Dad were frailyet *vicious* about Edmund.
We moved. A fixer-upper in the countryside. Ten acres, no judgement.
Now my parents rage-call:
«You abandoned us! Veronicas threatening nursing homes!»
Edwin and I? Happy. Quiet. Married in the village church. No regrets.
