**Diary Entry: Love Found in Unexpected Places**
*”You’re leaving me for that country bumpkin?” my wife spat, her voice thick with disbelief.*
*”Please dont call her that, Margaret. Its decided, Eleanor. Im sorry,” I replied, hastily packing my things.*
*”Youll come to your senses soon enough. You must. What will your colleagues think? The neighbours? A man of your standing running off with some unrefined, plain woman? What do we tell the childrenthat their educated father left their mother for a farmers widow?” Eleanor twisted a handkerchief in her hands, her knuckles white.*
*”The children? Thank God theyre grown. Emily will marry soon, and Thomas is set on his own reckless path. Neither of us can guide them now. As for the neighbours, the colleagues, the strangers in the street… I dont care. This is my life, not theirs. I dont peer into their bedrooms or hold candles to their mistakes.” I tried to soften the blow, but it was no use. When a marriage crumbles, the pain cuts both ways.*
Eleanor sat at the kitchen window, staring blankly outside. I felt no pitynot an ounce. Just emptiness.
She was my third wife. When we first met, my heart had fluttered, my soul opening to the promise of happiness. Eleanor was beautiful, polished, self-assured. I was no slouch eitherhandsome enough, with my pick of admirers. In my youth, I fell in love quickly, married recklessly, and fled just as fast when the routine soured. Only with Eleanor did I have children.
I thought shed be my anchor, my final harbour. But time reveals alllove, once sweet and lush, withers into something dry and shrivelled. In public, we played the perfect couple, earning admiration (or was it contempt?) from neighbours. The old ladies at the doorstep whispered as we passed, and we strode by like royalty.
Behind closed doors, the truth was stark.
Eleanor was no homemaker. The fridge was bare, laundry piled high, dust thick in every corner. Yet her nails were always manicured, her hair sleek, her makeup flawless. She believed the world revolved around her, that love was something she merely allowed. A star in her own mind, her heart locked tighteven to me, even to our children.
My mother lived with us. She endured the chaos silently before stepping ingently teaching Emily and Thomas to cook, clean, and care for themselves. Eleanor, fancying herself high society (God knows why), addressed them formallynever a term of endearment. The children grew distant, clinging instead to their kind, steady grandmother.
Eleanor forbade idle chatter with neighbours, offering only stiff greetings. For years, I didnt notice any of it. I was happyproud of Emily, the star pupil, baffled by Thomas, who scraped by with failing grades. How could two children, raised the same, turn out so different? We tried to steer Thomas right, but by secondary school, he despised Emily for her diligence. Sometimes, I had to pull them apart mid-fight.
Those were the Nineties.
After school, Thomas vanishedcaught up with some rough crowd. Three years passed without word. We mourned him as lost. Mum, eyeing Eleanor, would mutter: *”A lad falls from his horse when his mother sets him crooked.”* Eleanor would scoff, lock herself in the bathroom, and weep.
Then, one day, Thomas returneda wreck. Gaunt, scarred, eyes hollow. He brought a wife just as broken. We took them in, wary of his temper. He watched us with suspicion, flinching at silence.
Emily left soon after, tangled up with a brute who left her bruised but never complaining. *”Leave him,”* Mum begged. *”Hell kill you one day.”* But Emily insisted it was love. The bright girl shed been was gone.
And then, against all sense, I fell in love again.
At the factory canteen, there was Margaretplump, rosy-cheeked, always laughing like a bubbling brook. Id eaten there for years without noticing her. But her warmth drew me in. She was everything Eleanor wasnthair piled carelessly, nails bare, lips painted carrot-red. Her flat smelled of fresh pies, her fridge full. She fed neighbours, friends, strangers.
I courted her properlyflowers, cinema trips, dinners out. She hesitated: *”Youve a wife, John. What will your children think? I wont be a home-wrecker.”*
For months, I wavered. But nights at Margarets became more frequent. Eleanor knewgossip ensured that. She raged, called Margaret names, threatened to end herself.
Six months later, I moved out. Margaret was overjoyed but firm: *”Bring me divorce papers in a month, or this ends.”* I did. We married. No regrets.
Emily visits often now, free of that brute. Thomas is steadier, expecting a child. Margaret bridged the rift between them: *”Youre family. Lean on each other, not the world.”*
Mum passed peacefully. Eleanor? Age stripped her of pride. She turns away when we meet. We live streets apart, but I never look back.
Some may judge me. Let them. This is my lifemy choices, my consequences. Ill answer for them alone.
**Lesson learned:** Love isnt found in perfection, but in warmthin hands that feed, in laughter that heals, in a home that welcomes. The rest is just noise.
