**The Fickle Heart**
I never considered myself a beauty. Nor could I be called pretty. Not everyone is meant to walk a runway, after all. Yet in school, my closest friends were all lovely girls. At first, I wondered why, until my grandmother laid it bare:
“Ah, love, its easy for them to keep you arounda plain little thing like you wont steal their beaus. Whod look twice at you?”
Her words stung, but later, she softened. “Dont fret, my dear. Beauty fades like cheap dye. Remember, the brightest flowers lose their colour first. Your time will come.”
It didntnot until I was 27. Until then, I studied and worked hard, knowing I had only myself to rely on.
Then I met Arthur through my friend Emily. Shed grown sick of his constant attention”like a bad penny,” she said. “Take him off my hands, Irene. Maybe youll have better luck. Im getting married anyway.”
I took to Arthur at once. He was charming, and I was tired of waiting. Before long, we married.
Gran warned me: “Mark my words, lovethat boys not done sowing his wild oats. Dont boast of a marriage thats only days old; wait till its years.”
But I was blind with love. We were like lambs, nuzzling wherever we stood. Marriage gave me wings!
Then our son, Oliver, was born. Arthur adored himreading bedtime stories, singing lullabies, spoiling him rotten. As Oliver grew, he clung to his father more than me, but I didnt mind. Peace at home was all I wanted.
Five blissful years passed before the storm came.
Perhaps Emily envied meor never truly let go of Arthur. Either way, she lured him back. By then, shed divorced, childless and free.
I was gutted. My wings drooped. My sobbing felt endless. Explaining to Oliver broke my heart. Now, I told him tales of his father while hiding my tears. But life went onI had to raise my boy and keep my wits. Deep down, I hoped Arthur would come home, if only for Olivers sake.
When he did return, it was for his passport. “Emily wants a proper marriage,” he mumbled. I refused. He shrugged and left, but soon got a replacement.
Ill never know what spell Emily cast. Arthur forgot us entirely. Shed always been the prettiestvivacious, carefree, and sly. Her words were honey, though her eyes wandered. Id ignored it. A mistake. Sweet smiles can hide poison.
I shouldve seen it: Emily only lent him to me. “Im getting married,” shed saidbut when that ended, she took him back.
Twice, court summons came for divorce. I ignored them, clinging to hope.
Years passed. Arthur began missing Oliver, asking to visit. I agreed. By then, Id stopped pining. Oliver and I had our own rhythm.
Then disaster struckunannounced, like bad weather. Emily appeared at my door.
“Hows life, *friend*? Still single?” she smirked.
“What do you want?” I replied, cold as stone.
“Arthur wants Oliver to visit himin hospital. To say goodbye.”
My legs buckled. “Whats wrong with him?”
“Major surgery tomorrow. He might not make it.”
“He *will*!” I screamed after her.
The operation succeeded, but Arthur was left disabled at 40barely able to walk without a cane. Emily took him home, but I knew it wouldnt last. Her heart was shallow as a puddle.
I waited, letting the dust settle. Three months later, Emily called.
“Irene, Arthurs miserable without Oliver.”
“Or are *you* miserable with *him*?” I shot back.
Soon, Arthur returned. Emily had made his life unbearable. Living with an invalid was no picnic.
He was bitter, silent, cruel. But love is patient. Oliver and I tended to him daily. Slowly, he softenedeven leaving his cane behind.
Then Emily returnedwith a baby. “We need to share Arthur now. This is his daughter.”
“Youre like a weed, strangling everything,” I cried. “When will you let go?”
“Arthurs *mine*!” she shrieked.
And she was right. I dont blame him. Old love never rusts.
Gran said plainly, “That mans got a fickle heart, love.”
Oliver and I were alone again. He comforted me: “Well manage, Mum.”
Arthur left a scar on my soul. The hearts depths are unfathomable.
Years flew. Oliver married, moved away. Then, by chance, I saw Arthurhaunted, hollow-eyed.
“Where are you now?” I asked gently.
“Nowhere. Just walking,” he muttered, adrift.
…Now, seven years on, were together. Late autumn can still surprise with summer warmth. We dote on our grandson. Happy? Yes. Perhaps this is lovetested, scarred, but true.
P.S. Emily married a Frenchman and left. Her parting jab to Arthur? “I leave you to your guardian angel, Irene.”
