25September2025
Dear diary,
It still feels surreal to put pen to paper about the tangled path that led me to this point. When Edward first sent me his handwritten will, his trembling hand brushed mine as he kissed my wrist and whispered that I was the only person he wanted mentioned. He promised that his daughter would have no claim on anything I might need. Hearing those words, I felt a swell of respect for my English husband, and for a fleeting moment I thought I could rely on his honour without any prenuptial contract or insurance. I was naïve.
Our correspondence began on an obscure dating forum. I was a retired schoolmistress living in Leeds, longing for the excitement of marrying a man from abroad. The idea of settling down with a contemporary from my own town seemed dull; the thought of caring for a frail old father-inlaw was even less appealing. In contrast, English retirees Id read about seemed spry, adventurous, and still keen on traveling the world.
Edward was seventysix when we met, I was fiftyfive, a perfect match in age for his daughter, Blythe, who was my contemporary. Our messages stretched over a year, each exchange peeling back another layer of our personalities. By the time I boarded a coach to York, determined to win Edwards hand, I was both nervous and oddly hopeful.
The moment I stepped off the coach, a tall, wellkept gentleman greeted me with a wilted bouquet of roses. I thought of turning back, but the drama was only beginning. The roses, drooping and scentless, were handed to me as if a stagehand offering a prop. Edward slipped me into his sleek black sedan and drove me to his sizeable terraced house. A modest twoperson lunch awaited. When I asked for a vase for the sad flowers, he handed me a glass of water. The moment the stems hit the liquid, the petals fluttered to the flooran omen, perhaps, of things to come.
We both sensed that love would be a thin thread between us. I needed financial security; Edward, a companion to help with his daily routines. Two solitary lives, each seeking something to fill the void. He swore he would leave his entire estate to me upon his death, yet, as I learned later, a promise is not a deed.
Our wedding was quiet, a small ceremony in the local register office. I became Mrs. Morley. Attendees were limited to Edwards daughter Frances, her husband, their three children, and an old family friend. I was his third wife. In his first marriage he had twin daughters, Frances and Blytheboth raised despite Edwards staunch opposition to parenthood. He had long dreamed of a life devoted to selfimprovement and travel, but his first wife defied his wishes and bore the twins. He adored them, yet never forgave his wife’s defiance, and when they turned eighteen, he left the family in a public display of contempt. The wife never recovered from his departure and died in her sleep two years later, leaving a threestorey house, a country cottage, three cars, and the family business to the daughters. Edward even transferred the firm to Frances.
Soon after, Edward courted an elderly spinster, Margaret, who, like him, had no desire for children. She was seven years his senior, and they seemed content until Margaret fell ill. Edward tended to her with the tenderness of a devoted sonmassages, meals, even changing her nappiesuntil she passed away. The tragedy didnt end there; Frances was later found dead on a roadside under mysterious circumstances, her murderer never identified. This loss plunged Edward into deep depression, and his surviving daughter Blythe never visited him during that dark period.
After a period of grieving, Edward decided it was time to marry again. The internet, that everreliable matchmaker, introduced us. My life as Mrs. Morley began in earnest.
Financially, everything revolved around Edwards purse strings. He was stingy, allocating the bare minimum for groceries, scrutinising every receipt, demanding written accounts for any purchase. When I once asked for a modest sum for a pin and a lipstick, he grimaced as if Id demanded a lemon. Yet, every year we escaped on a cruise or a short holidayhis cherished dream of seeing the world. I tried to be kind to him, to respect his years, learning to prepare his favourite shepherds pie, monitoring his health, staying by his side through thick and thin, just as the old saying goes, in sickness and in health.
Then, a stroke robbed him of his faculties. Ambulances whisked him to the intensive care unit, and I immediately called Blythe. She arrived not to tend to her father, but to me, clutching his latest will: I bequeath all movable and immovable property to my daughter. To my wife, an amount to be determined by my daughter for a respectable life. It became clear Edward had secretly altered the will in favour of his daughters, perhaps driven by lingering guilt over his past decisions and the deaths of Frances and Blythes mother.
Blythe, still nursing her bitterness, never set foot in our home again. Edward, now eightytwo, slipped away six months later, his mind forever trapped in a fog.
After his death, I lingered in the house, nursing the grief and the paperwork. Blythe appeared on my doorstep, cold and merciless:
Mrs. Morley, youll need to leave this house quickly. Ill give you a sum that will fetch you a modest flat, then youll qualify for council housing. If I were you, Id return to my homeland. Theres nothing left for you here.
I imagined myself shivering on a street corner, hungry and alone. I replied, Dont tell me what to do, Blythe. Im still coping with my husbands death. Lets talk later. I felt lost, with no clear path forward.
Legal counsel advised me against suinga battle I was sure to lose, with astronomical court costs looming. By law, I was entitled to fifty per cent of the estate, but Edwards revised will nullified that right. I remained in his house, a fact that infuriated Blythe beyond measure:
Get out, Morley! Not only have you hoarded an old man, youll never see the inheritance! Youll have to watch it slip away!
In a desperate move, I produced the original will Edward had signed years earlier, insisting it proved he lacked the mental capacity to rewrite his wishes while suffering from senile dementia. I suggested perhaps his hand trembled under duress, like a pistol at his side. Blythe fell silent, contemplating my claim.
For months I rented a tiny room in a budget flat in York, surviving on the modest sums I could scrape from Blythe, using Edwards car sparingly. Life was lean, but I managed.
Now, I am married to Pierre, the man who first noticed me jogging in the park with my terrier, Max. I started running daily to keep fit, and Pierre, a widower with a gentle smile, fell for my determination. He loves me, and I finally feel a flicker of hope after years of turmoil.
The English countryside still holds its mysteries, but perhaps, at last, I have found a place where I belong.
S. Morley.
