“Better a Beloved Wife Than a Perfect Daughter”
“Lily, choose: either me or your parents,” my husband, Edward, was firm this time.
“Edward, you know Id follow you to the ends of the earth. But dont shut them out. You said yourselftheyre old. Have some mercy”
“I want nothing to do with them! Visit them if you must, since youre such a devoted daughter,” he shot me a reproachful look.
My first marriage was to a man whod served in Afghanistan. Simon seemed brave, fearlessand he was. A decorated major, a seasoned soldier.
Our son, Oliver, was born. My parents adored Simon, their son-in-law, and doted on their grandson.
“Lily, love, your mother and I can rest easy now. Simons a good man. Youre in safe handsdont let him down,” Dad never missed a chance to remind me how lucky I was.
But Simon paid Oliver little mind. The boy would reach for him, but Dad was always off fishing, meeting army mates, or “not in the mood.”
Eventually, Oliver stopped trying.
Then things got worse. Simon fell into black depressions. Cross him then, and youd regret it. I began keeping my distance.
Oliver was five when Simon, drunk as a lord, put on his uniform and threatened our boy with his service revolver. That was the final straw. His mind had been shattered by war, and I couldnt risk our lives. We divorced amicably.
My parents poured scorn on me:
“Youre a terrible wife! Where will you find another man like him? He was one in a million!”
But time only proved me right. Simon became just a chapter in my past. Years later, he married a deaf woman.
My second husband came quickly. I travelled often for work, drafting contracts in villages. In one such place, I met Edward Palmertall, charming, and instantly unforgettable.
“Lily, join me for dinner. Ill drive you home myself,” he kissed my hand like a gentleman.
Oliver was staying with my parentsno harm in a little fun.
One thing led to another
We fell hard, fuelled by passion. Edward was six years younger, divorced, with a seven-year-old daughter.
I knew my parents wouldnt approve. Too young, too brash”green as grass.” But I didnt care. I loved him fiercely.
“Mum, DadIm getting married. Edward and I would like to take you to dinner.”
They gaped.
“Youre joking, Lily! We thought youd patch things up with Simon. You share a child!”
“Forget Simon. He forgot Oliver. End of. Meet my fiancé tomorrowand dont bring him up.”
Edward arrived bearing gifts and a proposal:
“After the wedding, we should all live together. Youre not getting any youngerwell be there to help. What do you think?”
Dad scratched his head.
“Well suppose youre right. But where? Were in a tiny flat, Lilys got her place” he shot me a look, “and what about you, son?”
“Ive got my heart set on a three-storey house. Ill build it, move us all in,” Edward said dreamily.
We had a lively wedding, followed by a Mediterranean cruise. Wed take Oliver and Edwards daughter, Sophie, everywhere. His ex-wife was happy to let her travel with us.
Edward treated Oliver like his own. But Sophie and I never clicked. Shed glare, whisper in her dads ear, avoid me.
Three years later, we moved into the new housesprawling land, orchards, gardens. Edward had thought of everything for my parents: a ground-floor bedroom, kitchenno stairs. Olivers room was at the top (“Let the lad run up and down”). Ours was in the middle. Out back, a summer kitchen, a three-car garage.
Later, for Olivers 20th, a motorbike; for my milestone birthday, a new car; a spa break for Mum; a fishing boat for Dad.
Yet my family acted like it was owed, never appreciating Edwards kindness. The sniping never stopped. He brushed it off:
“Lily, I just want peace. Let them gossip. My conscience is clean. Ive given them everythingwhat more do they want? Theyll always idolise Simon. But I cant be him.”
Bit by bit, we became strangers under one roof. They never grasped that love cant be a one-way street.
Time marched on
Oliver brought home a girl. “This is Claire. Shes moving in.”
“Who is she? Your fiancée?” I asked warily.
He dragged her upstairs without a word.
Fine. He was grown. If Claires parents werent fussed about her virtue, why should I be?
But Claire was no shrinking violet.
“Lily, we want the second floor. Im pregnant,” she drawled, legs crossed, sipping *my* coffee.
She called us by our first names”No need for stuffy titles.”
“Claire, while this is my house, youll respect Olivers grandparents. Unhappy? The doors open.”
She yelled for Oliver: “Your mums kicking me outpregnant and all!”
Suddenly, Oliver shoved me. I fell, hit my head on the table, and wound up in hospital with a concussion.
My boymy pride, my joyhad raised a hand to me. For *her*. (Turned out, she wasnt pregnant.)
Edward was livid. Called the police. But I refused to press charges”I slipped.”
The betrayal festered. My son, trading me for some brazen hussy.
Once home, I forgave it. “These things happen.” Oliver knelt: “Mum, Im sorry.” I kissed his head, wept. Foolishly, I thought peace had returned.
That night, Edward dropped a bombshell:
“Did you know Claire crawled into our bed while you were gone?”
My jaw hit the floor.
“They were at a party. Oliver passed out drunk. She slithered in, purring like a cat.”
“And?”
“I threw her out.”
Unbelievable. But confronting Oliver would backfire. Claire would deny it. I bided my time.
Meanwhile, my parents poisoned the well:
“Edwards a womaniser! Kick him out!”
A lie repeated often enough Our fights grew petty. Finally, Edward left. A month passed.
Then a friend called:
“Lilyjust saw Edward with another woman!”
Idiot me! A man like him? Of course vultures would circle.
I won him back. The “other woman” was Sophiecareer-focused, still single at 25.
Edward had reached a decision:
“Lily, choose: me or your parents. Otherwise, were done.”
I pitied Mum and Dadfrail, stumblingyet theyd rally to spite Edward. Nothing could thaw their hearts.
So we left. Bought a fixer-upper in the countryside. Ten acres, no prying eyes. No compromises.
My parents raged:
“Youre no daughter! Abandoning us! That brute ruined us! Claires shipping us off to a home!”
May his legs wither!…
But Edward and I? We live quietly, joyfully, in love. We tend the garden together at dawn, brew tea in chipped mugs, and laugh over nothing at all. Oliver hasnt spoken to me in two yearsClaire ensured that. My parents are in a care home, their anger too heavy to carry far. I write them letters they never answer. Edward reads them aloud anyway, his voice steady, kind. On Sundays, we drive to the coast, roll down the windows, and let the wind take the silence away. I dont regret a thing.
