**Fell for a Cosy Woman or Let Them Talk**
*”You’re leaving me for that common woman?”* My wife stared at me in disbelief.
*”Dont call her that, please. Its done, Emma. Im sorry.”* I hurriedly packed my things.
*”Youll come to your senses soon. You must. What will your colleagues think? The neighbours? A man like you, throwing it all away for some unpolished nobody? What do we tell the children? That their refined father ran off with some farmhands daughter?”* Emma twisted a handkerchief in her hands, her voice fraying.
*”The children? Thank God theym grown. Sophiell be married soon, and James has gone his own waydown a slippery path. Were no example to them. As for the neighbours, colleagues, strangers in the street I dont give a damn what they think. This is my life. I dont pry into their bedrooms, hold candles to their private affairs.”* I tried to soften the blow, but it was no use.
The end of a marriage is agony for both.
Emma sat at the kitchen window, hollow-eyed. I felt nothing for her. Nothing. Just a void where my heart had been.
Emma was my third wife. When I first saw her, my pulse raceda glimpse of untapped happiness. Elegant, polished, self-assured. I wasnt bad myself back then, a regular Cary Grant. Women fancied me; I had my pick. Youth made me recklessfall in love, marry fast, grow bored quicker. Only with Emma did I have children.
I thought shed be my anchor. But time reveals all. Love, once sweet and ripe, withers like a dried fig. In public, we played the perfect coupleadmired (or despised?) by the neighbours. Grandmothers on the doorstep whispered as we passed. We sailed by, heads high, as if walking a red carpet.
Behind closed doors, the truth soured.
Emma was no homemaker. The fridge stood empty, laundry piled high, dust settled in every corner. Yet her nails gleamed, her hair immaculate, makeup fresh. She believed the world revolved around her. My wife permitted love but never returned it. Her heart was lockedeven to the children.
My mother lived with us. She endured the chaos in silence, then acted wisely. Gently, she taught Sophie and James to cook, clean, care for themselves. Emma, fancying herself high society (God knows why), addressed them formallySophia, Jamesnever coddled them. The children drifted to their grandmothers warmth instead.
Emma forbade idle chatter with neighbours, greeting them with a curt *hello*.
For years, I noticed none of it. Blind with love, I cherished each day. Sophie was top of her class; James scraped by. How could two children, raised the same, turn out so opposite? We tried to lift James to even *average*he refused. By secondary school, he resented Sophies diligence. Sometimes, I pulled them apart mid-fight.
Those were the nineties.
After school, James vanishedmixed up with some gang. Three years without a word. We searched, mourned, moved on. *You cant fence out grief.* Mum would glance at Emma and mutter, *”The apple doesnt fall far from the tree.”* Emma would storm off, locking herself in the loo, sobbing.
Then, out of nowhere, James returned. A wreckthin, scarred, haunted. He brought a wife just as broken. We took them in, wary of his temper. James eyed us with suspicion, flinched at silence.
Sophie left soon after. She found a manif you could call him that. No ring, just bruises. She never complained.
*”Leave him, love. Hell kill you one day. Rememberif you want misery, youll always find it,”* Mum begged, tearful.
*”Its fine, Gran. Tom loves me. The bruises? I slipped on the stairs.”* The star pupil was gone.
Then, foolish at my age, I fell in love again. Never saw it coming. *Grey in the beard, devil in the heart.* After shifts at the factory, I dreaded homeJamess rages, Emmas coldness, Mums jibes. *Three failed marriages, children gone wild, wife who cant boil an egg*
At the canteen worked Gloria. Always cheerful, warm, kind. For years, I barely noticed herrosy-cheeked, plump, laughing like a brook in spring. Then I did. She was older, a widow, her son grown and moved away.
The opposite of Emma. Hair in a messy bun, nails short, no polish, just carrot-red lipstick. Yet she glowedwelcoming, at ease with the world. Talking to her was like drinking clear spring water. Her flat smelled of fresh pies. The fridge brimmed with stew, roast, pudding. She fed neighbours, friends. How could I not love her?
I courted her properlyflowers, cinema, dinners.
Gloria hesitated. *”I like you, Colin, but youre married. What will your children think? I wont break a home.”*
I wavered, like all men fearing the first step onto thin ice.
Some nights, I stayed with her. Emma knew. Busybodies had told herwho, where, when. Our affair became public. Emma raged, called Gloria *”some backwater slattern,”* threatened to end herself.
Six months later, I left. Gloria was overjoyedbut firm. *”Show me divorce papers in a month, or Im done.”*
I did. We married. No regrets.
Sophie and James visit now. Gloria feeds them hearty meals. Sophie left Tom; James looks human againhealthier, calmer, expecting a child. Tired of lifes underbelly, perhaps. Gloria reconciled them. *”Youre family. Lean on each other, not drift like lost leaves.”* Now, they stick together.
Mum passed peacefully.
Emma? Aged, her pride gone. She turns away if we meet. We live streets apart. I never look back.
Judge me if you willbut its my life. Mine to live. I wont bend to others whispers.
