LIFE IN ORDER
“Lydia, I forbid you from speaking to your sister and her family! They have their life, and we have ours. Did you call Natalie again? Complaining about me? I warned you. Dont blame me if something happens,” Brandon snarled, gripping my shoulder painfully.
As usual in such moments, I silently retreated to the kitchen, bitter tears welling up. No, I never complained to my sister about my miserable lot. We just talked. We had elderly parentsplenty to discuss. But it drove Brandon mad. He hated my sister, Natalie. Her family was peaceful and prosperous, which was more than anyone could say about ours.
When I married Brandon, I was the happiest girl alive. He swept me off my feet in a whirlwind of passion. His height didnt bother meBrandon was a head shorter. Nor did I pay attention to his mother, who swayed unsteadily at our wedding. Later, I discovered she was a seasoned alcoholic.
Blinded by love, I ignored the red flags. But after a year of marriage, my fairytale happiness crumbled. Brandon drank heavily, stumbling home drunk as a skunk. Then came the parade of affairs. I worked as a nursehardly a fortunewhile Brandon preferred round-the-clock sessions with his drinking buddies. Providing for his wife wasnt on his agenda. Though I once dreamed of children, I settled for doting on my pedigree cat instead. The idea of raising a child with an alcoholic husband? No, thank you. Yet, somehow, I still loved him.
“Youre daft, Lydia! Look at all the men fawning over you, and here you are, blinders on, stuck with that pint-sized tyrant! What do you even see in him? Always walking around with bruises under that thick foundation. Ditch him before he kills you in one of his rages,” my best friend and colleague warned.
Yes, Brandon often unleashed senseless fury, fists and all. Once, he beat me so badly I couldnt work my shift. Worse, he locked me in the flat and took the key.
After that, I lived in terror. My heart pounded like a trapped bird whenever his key turned in the lock. I believed he resented mefor not giving him a child, for being a bad wife, for simply existing. So, I endured the blows, the insults, the cruelty. Why did I still love him?
His witch of a mother once hissed, “Lydia, obey your husband. Love him with all your heart. Forget your family and friendstheyll only lead you astray.” So I did. I cut ties, bowed to his whims, became his puppet.
I craved those moments when Brandon tearfully begged forgiveness, kneeling, kissing my feet. Those reconciliations were sickly sweet, draped in stolen rosessnatched from a neighbours garden by his drunkard friend, no doubt. Wives swooned over the flowers, forgiving their worthless husbands.
Id have stayed forever, patching up my shattered fairytale, if not for fates intervention.
“Let Brandon go. I have his son. Youre barren, anyway,” a stranger declared, barging into my life.
“I dont believe you! Get out,” I snapped.
Brandon denied everythinguntil I demanded he swear it wasnt his child. His silence spoke volumes.
“Lydia, Ive never seen you smile. Trouble?” Our hospitals head doctor, Harold Mills, had barely noticed me before. Now, sudden concern.
“Everythings fine,” I mumbled, flustered.
“Good. When everythings fine, lifes beautiful,” he mused cryptically.
Harold, divorced after his wifes infidelity, lived alone. At forty-two, he wasnt much to look atshort, balding, bespectacled. But up close, his aftershave sent shivers down my spine. Resisting his charm was impossible.
His words haunted me. *Everythings fine.* Mine was chaos. Time wouldnt pause while I untangled my mess.
So, I left Brandon, fleeing to my parents.
“Lydia, whats happened? Did he throw you out?” Mum gasped.
“No. Ill explain later,” I whispered, too ashamed to detail my shame.
Brandons mother screeched curses down the phone, but I stood tall, breathing freely for the first time. Thank you, Harold.
Brandon raged, threatened, stalked me. He didnt realise his grip was already gone.
“Brandon, dont waste time on me. Be a father to your son. Ive turned the page. Goodbye,” I said, eerily calm.
I reconnected with Natalie, with my family. I was myself againno longer a puppet.
“Lydia, youre glowing! Like a bride!” my friend exclaimed.
Then Harold proposed.
“Lydia, marry me. You wont regret it. One rulecall me Harold. Save Dr. Mills for work.”
“Do you even love me?” I asked, stunned.
“Ah, right. Women need words. Suppose I do. But actions matter more,” he said, kissing my hand.
“Yes, Harold. I think I could love you too,” I breathed, dizzy with joy.
Ten years flew by.
Harold proved his love dailyno grand gestures, just steady devotion. We never had children. Perhaps I *was* barren. But he never blamed me.
“Lydia, maybe its just us two. And youre enough,” hed say whenever I grieved motherhood.
His daughter gave us a granddaughter, little Sophieour joy.
As for Brandon? He drank himself into an early grave before fifty. His mother still glares at me in the supermarket, but her venom doesnt reach me. Pitys all I feel.
Harold and I? Everythings fine. Lifes beautiful.
