**A Husband More Precious Than Bitter Grudges**
“Ian, this is the last straw! Were donedivorced! Dont bother dropping to your knees like you always do. It wont work this time!” I slammed the door on our marriage, my voice sharp as shattered glass.
Ian didnt believe me. He assumed the same tired script would play outgroveling apologies, a flashy new ring, my reluctant forgiveness. It had happened too many times before. But not this time. My fingers, down to the pinkies, glittered with his empty promises, yet my life felt hollow. Ian drowned himself in whisky, lost and unrepentant.
It hadnt always been this way.
My first husband, Edward, vanished without a trace in the chaotic ’90s. Back then, danger lurked in every shadow. Edward had a temperalways picking fights, too proud for his own good. If something rubbed him wrong, arguments erupted like fireworks. I knew, deep down, hed met a violent end in some backstreet brawl. No word. No goodbye. Just me and my two little girlsElsie, five, and Ruby, barely two. Five long years passed.
I nearly lost my mind. Despite his flaws, Id loved Edward fiercely. Wed been inseparable. I swore Id raise my daughters alone, my own happiness buried. But then
Life was brutal. I worked at a factory, paid in toastersworthless unless I hustled them at the weekend market. One freezing winter, my fingers blue, a man approached. Pity flickered in his eyes.
“Youre freezing, love,” he said softly.
“Brilliant observation,” I quipped through chattering teeth. But his nearness radiated warmth.
“Stupid question, I know. Fancy a cuppa? Ill carry those toasters for you.”
I dragged him toward my flat, begged him to guard my unsold goods while I fetched the girls. By the time we returned, Ianthat was his namestill waited, stamping his feet against the cold.
“Stay,” I blurted, icy fingers clutching his sleeve. “Let me repay you with tea.”
He hesitated, glancing at the girls. “Wont I be in the way?”
“Dont be daft. Hold their handsIll put the kettle on.”
Something in me couldnt let him go. By teatime, he offered me a jobbetter pay than a years worth of toasters. I nearly kissed his hands in gratitude.
Ian was twice divorced, with a son from his first marriage.
And just like that, our lives tangled.
We married. He adopted my girls. Our four-bedroom house brimmed with luxury. A countryside cottage. Yearly seaside holidays. Pure bliss.
For seven years.
Then Ian started drinking. At first, I ignored ithe worked hard, needed to unwind. But when whisky crept into his workday, worry gnawed at me. Pleading failed.
Ever the reckless gambler, I hatched a plan: a baby. At thirty-nine, my friends laughed.
“Go on, Tanya,” they teased. “Maybe well all be mums by forty.”
Id always said, “Regret an abortion, but never a child.”
Twins. Now we had four daughters.
Ian kept drinking. Desperate, I sold everythingmoved us to a village. Opened a quaint café. He took up hunting, bought a shotgun. For a while, it worked.
Until the night he shattered our world.
Drunk on something foul, he smashed furniture, platesthen levelled the gun at us. A shot blasted the ceiling. We fled to the neighbours, trembling.
Morning brought eerie silence. The house? A warzone. Ian snored on the floor, dead to the world.
I packed what survived and marched to Mums.
“Tanya,” she fretted, “what am I to do with this brood? Go back. Every marriage has storms.”
Mum believed in suffering for a handsome husband.
Two days later, Ian came begging. I ended it. He remembered nothing, dismissed my fury. But I was done.
Sold the café for pennies. Moved villages. A cramped cottage now.
The older girls worked, then married. Twins in Year 5. They adored Ian, stayed in touch. Through them, he begged for reconciliation.
“Ma, hes changed,” they urged. “Hes sorry!”
I stood firm. Craved peace.
Two years passed.
Loneliness bit harder. Pawned his ringscouldnt afford to reclaim them. Memories haunted me. Our home had brimmed with love. Ian doted on all the girls, spoiled me. A near-perfect family.
Now, even my elder girls rarely visited. Youth called them away. Soon, the twins would fly the nest.
So I prodded them for news.
Ian lived sober, single. Left an addressjust in case.
Long story short, weve been back together five years.
Told you I was reckless.
