My dear lady, you are the only one mentioned in my will. I have provided everything my daughter will need, and she will have no complaints about you, Reginald kisses my hand and shows me the document.
I feel a warm thrill hearing those words, and I respect my English husband even more. I do not need a prenuptial agreement or insurance; I hope for his decency and humanity.I am wrong.
I meet Reginald through an online correspondence. I want to marry a foreigner. I live in Newcastle, retired, and I cannot find a suitable partner of my own age. I have no desire to look after an elderly husband in my own country. Abroad, older men seem lively, vigorous, and still eager to travel.
Reginald is seventysix, I am fiftyfive. I am the same age as his daughter, Mabel. Our letters continue for a year; we get to know each others temperaments and habits.
I fly to England, to the historic city of York, with a single purpose to marry Reginald. An imposing, fit gentleman greets me, holding a modest bouquet of slightly wilted roses. I could turn and run home, but the drama has only just begun. The roses are limp and scentless.
Reginald drives me to his large family home and serves a simple twoperson lunch. I ask for a vase for the sad roses; he hands me a glass of water. The moment I place the flowers in it, the pink petals crumble to dust. It feels like a sign from above.
Both of us understand there is no love to discover. I need financial security; he needs a companion to look after him. Two lonely, seasoned individuals find common ground.
Reginald promises to make me the heir to all his assets when he passes away. As it turns out, promising does not equal delivering.
We marry quickly, and I become Mrs. Morley. The ceremony is modest. The guests are Reginalds daughter Mabel with her husband and three children, and a familiar family couple.
I am Reginalds third wife. In his first marriage he fathered twin daughters, Frances and Mabel. Reginald had always been staunchly against having children; he wanted his life devoted to selfimprovement and travel. Yet his first wife defied him and bore the twins. He adored the girls but never forgave his wifes defiance.
When the twins turn eighteen, Reginald walks out of the family in a demonstrative exit. His wife cannot survive his departure and dies in her sleep two years later. He leaves a threestorey house, a countryside villa, three cars, and his business transferred to Frances to his children.
Later he finds an older lady, seven years his senior, also uninterested in children. Everything seems pleasant until his elderly wife falls ill. Reginald tends to her with tenderness, giving massages, feeding her, even changing her nappies until she finally passes away.
Soon after, tragedy strikes again: Frances is found dead on a roadside under mysterious circumstances. The killer is never found. Reginald sinks into depression. His daughter Mabel never visits, not once.
After a period of mourning, Reginald decides he must marry again. He uses an online dating site, and that is how I meet my English husband.
Our married life begins. All the money belongs to Reginald, and he appears miserly, giving the bare minimum for groceries, scrutinising every receipt, demanding a written account of every purchase. When I ask for a few pins or a lipstick, he winces as if he has swallowed a lemon. Yet, without fail, each year we embark on a cruise or a guided tour his longheld dream.
I treat Reginald kindly, pity his age, learn to cook his favourite dishes, watch his health, and stay by his side in both hardship and joy.
A sudden stroke lands Reginald in intensive care. I call his daughter immediately. She rushes not to her father but to me:
Sarah, Ive brought Dads will. Listen to this: All movable and immovable property I bequeath to my daughter. To my wife I leave an amount my daughter will determine for a respectable living.
In other words, Reginald secretly rewrote his will in favour of his daughter. He always felt uneasy about abandoning Frances and Mabel, blaming himself for Francess death.
Holding a grudge, Mabel never comes to see us. Reginald never meets his three grandchildren.
I expect to stay beside my ailing husband, but the rewritten will threatens my future. I spend six months caring for Reginald in the hospital, feeding him from a spoon, gently stroking his hand, talking to him as his mind drifts into its own world. He no longer recognises anyone. I have no intention of fighting his entrepreneurial daughter over the will.
When Reginald, now eightytwo, finally passes, his sisterinlaw Mabel appears at my doorstep:
So, Sarah, youll have to leave this house as soon as possible. Ill give you some money for a cheap flat, then youll get council housing. You should return to your homeland. Nothing awaits you here.
I picture myself shivering on the street, cold and hungry.
Dont tell me what to do, Mabel. Im still mourning your father. Lets meet later, I reply, bewildered.
Six months later, lawyers advise me that suing over the will is a nearcertain loss and would incur astronomical legal costs. Although I am legally entitled to fifty percent of the estate, the altered will erases that right.
I continue living in Reginalds house, a fact that infuriates Mabel:
Get out, Sarah. Youve hijacked an old, mindless father, and now you wont be driven out! Hand over the inheritance!
A sudden thought saves me. I pull out the first will from the desk:
Mabel, here is the original document where Dad clearly leaves everything to me. I can prove in court that he was suffering from senile dementia when he altered the will, possibly under duress. Perhaps he signed it with a pistol to his head. Prove it later
Mabel falls silent, contemplating.
For a while I rent a modest room in a cheap part of York, drive Reginalds car sparingly, and survive on the crumbs I manage to scrape from Mabels allowance.
Now I am married to Peter. He spots me in the park while walking his dog, and I sprint there almost every morning for my jog. I like staying fit, looking presentable.
Peter, a widower, is captivated by me. He tells me that British men admire strong, resilient women. I smile, knowing that after all the upheaval, I have finally found a quiet corner of happiness.
