**A HUSBAND WORTH THE HEARTACHE**
“Ian, thats the final straw! Were donedivorced! And dont bother dropping to your knees like you always do; it wont work this time!” I slammed the door on our marriage with those words.
Ian, of course, didnt believe me. He was sure itd play out like always: hed grovel, apologize, buy me another ring, and Id forgive him. It had happened more times than I could count. But this time, I was finally cutting the cord. My fingers, right down to the pinkies, were weighed down with ringsyet my life felt empty. Ian had taken to drowning his sorrows in whiskey, and there was no reasoning with him when the bottle had its grip.
It had all started so romantically.
My first husband, Eddie, vanished without a trace back in the rough-and-tumble 90sa time when simply existing felt like a gamble. Eddie wasnt one to back down from a fight. He had the pride of a lion but the wingspan of a sparrow. If something rubbed him the wrong way, hed turn the place upside down. I was certain hed gotten tangled in something ugly and never made it out. No word, no closurejust me left with our two girls. Lily was five, Rosie barely two. Five years passed after his mysterious disappearance.
I thought Id lose my mind. Id loved Eddie fiercely, despite his temper. Wed been inseparabletwo halves of a whole. Id resigned myself to a life of raising the girls alone, my own happiness written off. But then
Those were hard times. I worked at a factory, getting paid in toastersyes, toasterswhich I then had to flog at the market just to put food on the table. One freezing winter day, blue with cold as I hawked my wares, a man took pity on me.
“Bit nippy out, love?” he asked gently.
“You think?” I joked through chattering teeth. But there was something warm about him, something safe.
“Stupid question, I know. Fancy a cuppa? Ill help carry these unsold toasters.”
“God, yes. At this rate, Ill freeze solid,” I managed.
We never made it to the café. I dragged him near my flat, asked him to wait by the door (toaster guard duty), then dashed to fetch the girls from nursery. My legs were blocks of ice, but my heart had thawed. When we returned, there he wasIan, as hed introduced himselfshifting from foot to foot, cigarette in hand. *Might as well offer him tea*, I thought. *Whats the worst that could happen?*
Ian hauled the toasters up six flights (lift broken, naturally). By the time Id herded the girls to the third floor, he was already heading down.
“Wait! You cant leave without a proper cuppa!” I grabbed his sleeve with my frostbitten fingers.
“You sure I wont be in the way?” He eyed the girls warily.
“Dont be daft! Hold their hands; Ill put the kettle on.” I wasnt about to let this man slip away. He already felt like family. Over tea, Ian offered me a jobpaying more in a month than the factory did in a year. I nearly kissed his shoes in gratitude.
Ian was technically still married (his second go-round) but mid-divorce, with a son from wife number one.
And just like that, life took off.
We married soon after. He adopted my girls. We bought a four-bedder in Surrey, filled it with posh furniture, built a countryside cottage. Yearly holidays by the sealife was a dream.
For seven blissful years. Then Ian, having scaled the heights of contentment, discovered the depths of a whiskey bottle. At first, I shrugged it off. Stress relief, right? But when work lunches turned into all-day benders, I got worried. Pleading did nothing.
Now, Ive always been a bit of a madcap. To snap Ian out of it, I hatched a plan: *Have his baby.* I was thirty-nine. My mates, when they heard, just laughed.
“Go on, Tanya! Maybe youll start a trendmidlife mums club!”
Id always told them: “Regret the one you let go, never the one you keep.”
We had twins. Four daughters now! But Ians drinking didnt stop. I endured it, then hatched another scheme: *Move to the countryside. Fresh air, animalsno time for booze.*
We sold the flat, the cottage, bought a house in a village, opened a charming bistro. Ian took up huntingguns, gear, the lot. For a while, it worked.
Then came *the night*. Whatever swill Ian had downed turned him feral. Smashed crockery, splintered furniture, then*BANG!*a shotgun blast into the ceiling. The girls and I fled to the neighbours.
Morning brought quiet. We crept home to a war zone. No chairs, no plates, no bedsjust Ian snoring on the floor. I salvaged what I could and marched the girls to Mums.
“Oh, Tanya,” she fretted. “What am I to do with this brood? Go back to him. Every marriage has its bumps.”
Mums motto: *Grin and bear it, as long as hes handsome.*
Two days later, Ian turned up. Thats when I ended it. He didnt even remember his rampage. Called my stories nonsense. But I was done.
Sold the bistro for peanuts, moved to a tiny village house. The older girls found work, then husbands. The twins started secondary school. They adored Ian, so I heard updates: *Hes sober. Working in Birmingham. No new missus. Says hes sorry (again).*
Two years passed. Loneliness gnawed at me. Id pawned all Ians ringsno hope of reclaiming them. I missed our chaos, the love wed had. Hed been a good father, a tender (if flawed) husband. Was pride worth this emptiness?
I nudged the twins to grill him: *Any girlfriends?* Turned out, he was alone, dry as a bone, and had left his address*just in case.*
Long story short, weve been back together five years now.
What can I say? Ive always been a gambler.
