**Diary Entry**
I never planned to marry. If not for my future husbands relentless courtship, Id still be as free as a bird. Arthur fluttered around me like a lovesick moth, never letting me out of his sight, bending over backward to please me. In the end, I surrendered. We married.
Arthur quickly became my safe placefamiliar, warm, like a pair of well-worn slippers. A year later, our son Oliver was born. Arthur worked in another city, coming home only once a week, always bringing treats for Oliver and me.
One visit, as I sorted his laundry (a habit after once washing his driving licence), a folded slip of paper tumbled from his pocket. 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 amused himself while away! A bigamist! No hystericsjust my bag under my arm, Olivers tiny hand in mine, and off to Mums. She gave us a room: *”Stay till you sort it out.”*
Revenge crossed my mind. I remembered an old schoolmate, Robert. Hed fancied me for years. I called.
*”Hello, Robbie! Still single?”* I began lightly.
*”Lucy? Blimey! Married, divorced Fancy meeting up?”* he replied eagerly.
That fling lasted six months. Arthur, meanwhile, delivered monthly child support in silence, handing it to Mum before leaving.
I knew he lived with Emily, a woman with a daughter from a previous marriage. Emily insisted the girl call Arthur *”Daddy.”* The moment I left, they moved into his flat. Emily adored himknitting jumpers, cooking hearty meals. I learned all this later. At the time, I believed our marriage was over.
Then, over coffee (discussing divorce), nostalgia hit us both. Arthur confessed undying love, swearing hed been trying to shake off Emily. Foolishly, I pitied him. We reconciled. He never knew about Robert. Emily and her daughter left town.
Seven happy years passed before Arthur crashed his car. Surgeries, rehab, a canetwo gruelling years that broke him. He drank heavily, withdrew. No plea reached him.
Meanwhile, at work, Paul became my shoulder to cry onlistening in the break room, walking me home, offering comfort. He was married, his wife expecting their second child. I still dont know how we ended up in bed. Absurd! He was shorter than me, not my type at all.
Yet it spiralled: galleries, concerts, ballets. When his daughter was born, Paul vanished, quitting our job to avoid me. I didnt fight ithed been a distraction, nothing more.
Arthur kept drinking. Friends carried him home; Id find him sprawled on benches, pockets emptied.
Then, one spring day, as I stood gloomily at the bus stop, a voice murmured: *”Maybe I can help?”* I turned. Good Lorda silver fox! At 45, was I still a catch? Flustered, I bolted onto the bus. But Daniel (his name) waited for me every morning after, blowing kisses, even handing me tulips once. I scoffed: *”What will the girls at work say?”* He laughed, giving them to a watching granny, who giggled: *”Bless you, love! Hope shes wild!”*
Daniel57, teetotal, ex-athletewas magnetic. For three years, I was torn between home and him. My son Oliver knew; he spotted us at a restaurant but never judged, only begged me not to divorce Arthur.
Logic said *stop*. A divorced friend warned: *”Still waters run deep.”* But I only quit when Daniel raised his hand at me. The spell broke. Freedom!
Daniel begged for monthskneeling in public, pleading. I stood firm. My friend gifted me a mug: *”Youre right.”*
Arthur knew everything. Daniel had called him, boasting Id leave. Arthur admitted: *”Hearing his gloating, I wanted to die. I lost you to the drink. Idiot.”*
Ten years on, we have two granddaughters. Over coffee, Arthur squeezes my hand: *”Lucy, dont look away. Im your happiness. Believe me?”*
*”Always, my love.”*
