THE HUSBAND WORTH MORE THAN BITTER RESENTMENTS
“Igor, that was the last straw! We’re donedivorced! Dont bother dropping to your knees like you always do, it wont work this time!” I slammed the final nail into the coffin of our marriage.
Igor, of course, didnt believe me. He was certain it would play out like always: hed kneel, beg, buy another ring, and Id forgive him. It had happened more times than I could count. But this time, I was determined to sever the ties for good. My fingers, down to the smallest, were heavy with rings, yet my life felt hollow. Igor had sunk deep into the bottle, drowning in drink after drink.
And yet, it had all begun so sweetly.
My first husband, Edward, had vanished without a trace. It was the 90s, a grim time when fear hung thick in the air. Edward had never been one to avoid troubleheadstrong as an eagle but with the wings of a gnat. If something rubbed him the wrong way, hed stir up a storm. I was sure hed been caught in some unsavoury business. No word ever came. Left alone with two little girlsElsie, five, and Rose, barely twoI grieved for years.
I thought Id go mad. Despite his temper, Id loved Edward fiercely. Wed been inseparable, two halves of one whole. My heart told me life was overId raise the girls and forget myself. But fate had other plans.
Those were lean, bitter years. I worked at a factory, paid in toasters I had to sell just to put food on the table. Weekends meant hawking them at the market, shivering until my fingers turned blue. One winters day, a man took pity on me.
“Youre freezing, love,” he said gently.
“Brilliant observation,” I joked through chattering teeth. But his presence brought warmth.
“Stupid thing to say, wasnt it? Fancy a cuppa? Ill help carry those toasters.”
“Go on, then. Otherwise, Ill freeze solid.”
We never made it to the café. I dragged him closer to home, left him guarding the toasters by the door while I fetched the girls from nursery. My legs were numb, but my heart felt strangely light. When we returned, there he wasIgor, as he introduced himselfshifting from foot to foot, cigarette in hand. “Come in for tea,” I blurted. “Whats the harm?”
He hauled the toasters up six flights (the lift, of course, was broken). By the time wed trudged to the third floor, he was already descending.
“Wait!” I grabbed his sleeve with icy fingers. “You cant leave without tea!”
“Wont I be in the way?” He glanced at the girls.
“Dont be daft! Hold their handsIll put the kettle on.”
I couldnt let him slip away. He already felt like family. Over tea, Igor offered me a jobbetter wages than a years worth of toasters. I nearly kissed his hands in gratitude.
He was twice married, mid-divorce, with a son from his first wife.
And so it began.
We married soon after. He adopted the girls. Life turned goldena four-bedroom house, fine furniture, holidays by the sea. For seven years, it was bliss. Then, with everything hed ever wanted, Igor found solace in the bottle. At first, I ignored it. He worked hard; he deserved to unwind. But when drinking bled into his work, I grew uneasy. Pleas fell on deaf ears.
Ever the gambler, I hatched a plan: another child. At thirty-nine, my friends laughed.
“Go on, Tessa,” they teased. “Might inspire the rest of us to be forty-year-old mums.”
Id always said: “Youll regret an abortion, but never an unplanned child.”
We had twins. Four daughters now. Still, Igor drank.
Tiring of it, I dreamed of the countrysidefresh air, a farm, something to keep him busy. We sold the house, the holiday home, bought a cottage in a village. Opened a cosy café. Igor took to huntingguns, gear, the lot.
For a while, it worked. Until the night he came home blind drunk. Something dark had taken hold. He smashed everythingplates, furniture, then turned on us. A shotgun blast to the ceiling sent us fleeing to the neighbours.
Morning brought silence. The house was a ruin. Igor lay passed out on the floor.
I gathered what I could and led the girls to my mothers. “Oh, Tessa,” she fretted, “what am I to do with this flock? Go back. Every marriage has its storms.”
Two days later, Igor came begging. Thats when I ended it. He remembered nothing, dismissed my words. I didnt care. Bridges burned.
We sold the café for scraps, moved to a tiny cottage in the next village. The older girls found work, then husbands. The twins, in Year Five, still loved their father. Through them, I heard his pleas to return. “Mum, stop being proud,” theyd say. “Dads sorry! Youre not twenty-five anymore!”
I stood firm. Peace was worth more.
Two years passed.
Loneliness gnawed at me. The rings hed given me sat in a pawnbrokers, unredeemed. I missed him. Our home had been full of love. Hed adored all the girls, cherished me, always knew how to make amends. What more could I want?
Now the elder daughters barely visitedyouth keeps busy. Soon the twins would fly the nest, leaving me alone.
So I sent them to spy. “Ask your father how hes really doing.”
Turns out, hed moved towns. Not a drop of drink. No other woman. He gave them his addressjust in case.
Long story short, weve been back together five years now.
Told you I was a gambler.
