LIFE IN ORDER
“Emily, I forbid you to speak to your sister and her family! They have their life, and we have ours. Did you call Charlotte again? Complaining about me? I warned you. Dont blame me if something happens,” Oliver hissed, his grip tightening painfully on my shoulder.
As always in these moments, I retreated silently to the kitchen, bitter tears welling up. No, I never complained to my own sister about my lot. We simply talked. Our elderly parents gave us plenty to discuss. Oliver despised it. He loathed my sister Charlotte. Her home was peaceful, prosperousunlike ours.
When I married Oliver, I was the happiest girl alive. He swept me up in a whirlwind of passion. His height didnt trouble meOliver was a head shorter. Nor did I pay much mind to his mother, who swayed unsteadily at our wedding. Later, I learned she was a hardened drunk.
Blinded by love, I ignored the cracks. But a year in, doubts crept in. Oliver drank heavily, stumbled home reeking of ale. Then came the affairs. I worked as a nurse, my wages meagre. Oliver preferred the company of his drinking mates. Providing for me wasnt his concern. Once, I dreamed of childrennow I doted on a pedigree cat. The thought of bearing an alcoholics child repulsed me. Yet, somehow, I still loved him.
“Youre a fool, Emily! Men flock around you, gazing like lost puppies, and youre blind to it, stuck on that runt! What do you see in him? You walk about bruised, hiding black eyes under foundation. Dump him before he kills you in a rage,” my colleague and friend warned.
Olivers violence was frequent, irrational. Once, he beat me so badly I missed my shift. Worse, he locked me in, pocketing the key.
From then on, terror gripped me. My heart raced when his key turned in the lock. I believed he punished mefor failing to give him a child, for being a bad wife, for simply existing. So I endured the blows, the slurs, the cruelty. Why did I still love him?
His witch-like mother once whispered, “Emily, obey your husband, love him with your whole heart. Forget your family, your friendstheyll lead you astray.” And I did. I severed ties, surrendered completely.
I craved his apologieshis knees on the floor, lips on my feet. Reconciliation was thick with sweetness, magic. Oliver scattered our bed with rose petals, their scent intoxicating. In those moments, I soared, weightless among clouds. Of course, I knew he stole those roses from a fellow drunk, whose wife tenderly grew them. Wives swooned over stolen blooms, pardoning their men.
I might have dragged this wretched life out forever, my imagined paradise shattering and reforming. But fate intervened.
“Leave Oliver. Ive borne his son. Youre barren. Useless,” a stranger declared, demanding I relinquish him for her childs sake.
“Liar! Get out!” I snapped.
Oliver denied it fiercely. “Swear its not your son!” I demanded, knowing he couldnt disown his blood. His silence spoke volumes.
“Emily, Ive never seen you smile. Trouble?” The hospitals head physician, Dr. Henry Whitmore, had barely noticed me before. Now, his concern startled me.
“Everythings fine,” I murmured, flustered.
“Good. When lifes in order, its beautiful,” he said cryptically.
Rumour said Dr. Whitmores wife had betrayed him. Now, at forty-two, he lived aloneunremarkable, bespectacled, balding, short. Yet when he neared, warmth surged through me. His cologne, spiced with something heady, was irresistible. I fled temptation, but his words haunted me. *Life in order.* Mine was chaos. Time wouldnt pause while I untangled it.
I left Oliver, returning to my parents. My mother gasped, “Emily! Did he throw you out?”
“No. Ill explain later,” I mumbled, ashamed to recount my marriage.
Olivers mother screeched down the phone, cursing me. But I stood tall, breathing freely at last. Thanks to Dr. Whitmore.
Oliver raged, threatened, stalked me. He didnt realise his hold had shattered. “Oliver, tend to your son. He needs you. Ive turned the page. Goodbye,” I said, calm as still water.
I reconnected with Charlotte, with my family. I was myself againno puppet.
My friend gaped. “Emily, youre glowing! Like a bride!”
Then Dr. Whitmore proposed. “Emily, marry me. You wont regret it. One rulecall me Henry. Save Dr. Whitmore for work.”
“Do you love me, Henry?” I asked, stunned.
“Forgive me. Women need words, dont they? I suppose I love you. Though actions matter more,” he said, kissing my hand.
“Yes, Henry. Ill learn to love you,” I breathed, joy bursting in my chest.
Ten years flew by.
Henry proved his love dailyno grovelling, no empty vows. He cherished me, surprised me with grand gestures. We had no childrenperhaps I *was* barren. But Henry never reproached me.
“Emily, it seems were meant to walk this life alone. Youre enough,” he soothed when I grieved motherhood.
His daughter gave us a granddaughter, little Sophiaour shared joy.
As for Oliver? He drank himself into an early grave before fifty. His mother glares at me in the market, her hatred dissolving harmlessly in the air. Pitiable, nothing more.
Henry and I? Lifes in order. Lifes beautiful.
