**A Husband Worth More Than Bitter Regrets**
*Diary Entry*
“Igor, this was the last straw! We’re donedivorced! Dont bother falling to your knees like you always do; it wont work this time!” I slammed the door on our marriage.
Of course, Igor didnt believe me. He was sure itd play out like before: hed grovel, buy another ring, and Id forgive him. It had happened too many times. But this time, I was done. My fingers were lined with rings, yet my life was empty. Igor drank himself senseless, drowning in vodka.
It all began so romantically.
My first husband, Edward, vanished without a trace in the 90sa terrifying time. Edward had a temper, always picking fights. As they say, eyes like an eagle, wings like a gnat. If things didnt go his way, hed explode. Im certain he was killed in some shady business. No word, no body. Left with two girlsLily, five, and Rose, twoI thought Id lose my mind. I loved Edward, despite his flaws. We were inseparable. I swore my life was over; Id raise the girls alone.
But survival was brutal. I worked at a factory, paid in toastershad to sell them just to eat. One winter, freezing at the market, a man took pity.
“Youre freezing, love,” he said gently.
“No kidding,” I joked through chattering teeth. But his presence warmed me.
“Lets get you a cuppa. Ill help carry these.”
We never made it to the café. I dragged him near my flat, left him guarding the toasters while I fetched the girls. Seeing him still there, smoking anxiously, I thought, *Ill offer teawhats the worst that could happen?*
He helped haul the toasters up six flights (lift broken, naturally). By the third floor, he was already heading down.
“Wait! You cant leave without tea!” I grabbed his sleeve.
He eyed the girls. “Wont I be in the way?”
“Dont be daft. Hold their hands; Ill put the kettle on.”
Over tea, Igor offered me a jobbetter pay than a years worth of toasters. I couldve kissed his hands. He was divorcing his second wife, with a son from the first.
And so it began.
We married. He adopted the girls. Life was goldena four-bed house, fancy furniture, holidays by the sea. Seven years of bliss. Then, bored with comfort, Igor turned to the bottle. At first, I ignored it. Work was stressful; he needed to unwind. But when drinking spilled into his office, I worried. Pleading did nothing.
Ever the gambler, I hatched a plan: a baby. At 39, my friends laughed.
“Go on, Tanyamaybe well follow suit at forty!”
Id always said: “Regret an abortion, never a child.”
We had twins. Four daughters now. Still, Igor drank. Desperate, I sold everything for a village house, opened a posh café. Igor took up huntingguns, gear, the lot. For a while, it worked.
Then came the night he lost control. Drunk on God-knows-what, he smashed everything, even fired a shot into the ceiling. We fled to the neighbours. Returning at dawn, the house was a warzone. Igor lay passed out.
Mum sighed when we arrived. “Oh, Tanya, what am I to do with this brood? Go back. Every marriage has its storms.”
Two days later, Igor came. I ended it. He didnt remember a thing. Sold the café for pennies, moved to a tiny cottage. The older girls married; the twins started secondary school. They adored Igor, so I heard updates: sober, alone, begging for my return.
Two years later, loneliness gnawed at me. Pawned my rings, couldnt retrieve them. Missed the love wed had. Igor was a good father, a repentant husband. Was pride worth this emptiness?
I nudged the twins to snoop. No other womanjust work in another city, teetotal. Left his address “just in case.”
Now, were five years reunited.
Told you Im a gambler.
