**LIFE IN ORDER**
“Amelia, I forbid you to speak to your sister and her family! They have their own life, and we have ours. Did you call Natalie again? Complaining about me? I warned you. Dont blame me if something happens,” Oliver hissed, gripping my shoulder painfully.
As usual in these moments, I silently retreated to the kitchen, bitter tears welling up. No, I never complained to my sister about my life. We simply talked. With elderly parents to care for, there was always something to discuss. But Oliver couldnt stand it. He despised my sister Natalie. Her family had peace and prosperitysomething we sorely lacked.
When I married Oliver, I thought I was the happiest woman alive. He swept me off my feet in a whirlwind of passion. His height never bothered meOliver was a head shorter. I barely noticed his mother swaying drunkenly at our wedding. Later, I learned she was a hardened alcoholic.
Blinded by love, I ignored the red flags. But after a year of marriage, doubts crept in. Oliver drank heavily, stumbling home wasted. Then came the affairs. I worked as a nurse, earning a modest wage, while Oliver preferred endless pub crawls with his mates. Supporting me wasnt part of his plans. Once, I dreamed of childrennow I settled for caring for our pedigree cat. I refused to bring a child into this mess, though I still loved him.
“Youre daft, Amelia! Plenty of men fancy you, yet youre stuck on that drunkard! What do you see in him? Walking around with bruises under layers of makeupthink no one notices? Leave him before he kills you in a rage!” My best friend and colleague never minced words.
Olivers temper was unpredictable. Once, he beat me so badly I couldnt work. He locked me in the flat, taking the key. From then on, terror gripped me whenever I heard his key in the door. I thought he resented mefor not giving him a child, for being a bad wife. So I endured the beatings, the insults, the cruelty. Why did I still love him?
His witch-like mother once told me, “Amelia, obey your husband. Love him with your whole heart. Forget your family and friendstheyll only lead you astray.” So I did. I cut everyone off, surrendering completely to Oliver.
I craved his apologiesthe knee-bending, foot-kissing pleas for forgiveness. Our reconciliations were intoxicating, rose petals strewn across our bed. Never mind that hed stolen them from a neighbours garden. Wives like me clung to such hollow gestures.
I might have stayed forever, trapped in this cycle, if not for a strangers bold claim.
“Leave Oliver. I have his son. Youre barrenuseless,” the woman spat.
“I dont believe you! Get out!” I snapped.
Oliver denied everythinguntil I dared him to swear on his life. His silence said it all.
“Amelia, Ive never seen you smile. Trouble?” The hospitals head doctor, Edward Whitmore, surprised me with his concern.
“Everythings fine,” I mumbled, flustered.
“Good. When lifes in order, its beautiful,” he mused.
At forty-two, Edward was unassumingshort, balding, bespectacled. But his presence stirred something in me. His aftershave was intoxicating, his charm impossible to resist. His words lingered: *Life in order.* Mine was chaos. Time wasnt waiting for me to figure it out.
So I left. My mother gasped when I turned up. “Amelia! Did Oliver throw you out?”
“No. Ill explain later,” I whispered, too ashamed to confess.
Olivers mother screeched curses down the phone, but I stood tall, breathing freely for the first time.
He hunted me, raging, threatening. But his power over me was gone. “Oliver, focus on your son. Ive moved on. Goodbye.” My voice was steady.
I reconnected with Natalie, with my parents. I was myself againno longer a puppet.
“Youre glowing, Amelia! Like a bride!” my friend exclaimed.
Then Edward proposed. “Marry me. You wont regret it. Just call me Edwardsave Dr Whitmore for work.”
“Do you even love me?” I asked.
“Ah, women and their words. Suppose I do. Actions matter more,” he said, kissing my hand.
“Yes, Edward. I think I could love you too.”
Ten years flew by. Edward proved his love dailyno grand gestures, just quiet devotion. We never had childrenperhaps I *was* barren. But he never blamed me.
“Then its just us two. Youre enough,” hed say whenever I grieved motherhood. His daughter gave us a granddaughter, Charlotteour little joy.
As for Oliver? He drank himself into an early grave before fifty. His mother still glares at me in the market, her hatred dissolving harmlessly in the air.
Edward and I? Lifes in order. And its beautiful.
