I never planned to get married. If not for my future husbands relentless courtship, Id still be flying free as a bird. Arthur fluttered around me like a lovesick moth, never letting me out of his sight, bending over backward to please meutterly devoted. In the end, I gave in. We married.
Arthur quickly became my comfort, my closest companion. Being with him was as easy as slipping into well-worn slippers.
A year later, our son Oliver was born. Arthur worked in another city, coming home only once a week. He always brought treats for Oliver and me. One visit, as usual, I sorted his laundry, checking every pocketa habit Id formed after once washing his drivers license. This time, a folded slip of paper fell from his trousers. Unfolding it, I found a long list of school supplies (it was August). At the bottom, in a childs scrawl: *”Daddy, come home soon.”*
So, this was how my husband entertained himselfa bigamist!
No hysterics. I grabbed my bag, took Oliver (not yet three) by the hand, and went to Mums. For good. She gave us a little room: *”Stay here till you sort things out.”*
Revenge simmered in my mind. I remembered an old schoolmate, Roger. Hed pursued me relentlessly in school and after. I called him.
“Roger? Still single?” I began casually.
“Natalie? Blimey! Married, divorcedwhats the difference? Fancy meeting up?”
Our fling lasted six months. Arthur sent child support every month, handing it silently to Mum before leaving.
I knew he was living with Emma Carter, who had a daughter from a previous marriage. Emma insisted the girl call Arthur “Dad.” They lived in his flat. The moment I left, Emma moved straight in. She adored himknitted him jumpers, cooked hearty meals. Id learn all this later. But at the time, I believed our marriage was over.
Then, over coffee (discussing divorce), nostalgia swept over us. Arthur confessed undying love, admitted he didnt know how to rid himself of clingy Emma.
Pity overwhelmed me. We reconciled. (He never knew about Roger.) Emma left town for good.
Seven happy years passed. Then Arthur crashed his carsurgeries, rehab, a cane. Two years of recovery left him shattered. He drank heavily, withdrew. Pleading didnt help.
Meanwhile, at work, I found a shoulder to cry onPaul. Married, expecting his second child, he listened, consoled me. One day, we ended up in bed. Madnesshe was shorter than me, not my type!
Yet it spiraled. Paul whisked me to concerts, ballets. When his daughter was born, he pulled back, quit our company. Out of sight, out of mind? I didnt clinghed just numbed my pain.
Arthur kept drinking.
Five years later, Paul and I bumped into each other. He seriously proposed. I laughed.
Arthur briefly sobered, went to Germany for work. I played the dutiful wife. He returned, we renovated, bought gadgets, fixed his car. Life seemed sweetuntil he relapsed.
His mates carried him home, drunk. Id scour the neighbourhood, finding him passed out on benches, pockets turned inside out.
One spring day, I stood glumly at the bus stop. Birds sang, sun shoneI barely noticed. A whisper at my ear:
“Maybe I can help?”
I turned. Good Lorda handsome, well-groomed man. Me, at 45could I still turn heads? Flustered, I boarded the bus just in time.
Edward (his name) was relentless. He waited for me daily, blew kisses, once brought a bouquet of roses.
“Where am I supposed to take these? The girls at work will gossip!”
He laughed, handed them to an eavesdropping granny, who beamed: *”Ta, love! May you find passion!”*
“Lets be guilty together,” Edward said.
Tempting. With Arthur perpetually drunk, I caved.
Edwarda teetotal, ex-athlete (57), divorcedwas electrifying.
Three years, torn between home and him. I was drowning in lust, not love.
My son Oliver knew. He spotted us at a restaurant, met Edward politely. That evening, he eyed me. *”Work meeting?”* he teased. He didnt judge but begged me not to divorce Arthur.
A divorced friend warned: *”Ditch these flings!”* I noddedyet couldnt stop until Edward raised his hand at me.
That was it. The fog lifted. Free at last!
Edward begged for months. I stood firm. My friend gifted me a mug: *”You did right.”*
Arthur knew everythingEdward had called, gloated.
*”Hearing him boast, I wanted to die,”* Arthur admitted. *”I lost you to the bottle. Idiot.”*
Ten years on, weve two granddaughters. Over coffee, Arthur takes my hand.
“Nat, dont look elsewhere. Im your happiness. Believe me?”
“Of course, my love.”
