**The Fickle Heart**
I never considered myself a beauty. Even “pretty” would be stretching it. Not everyone gets to walk the runway, after all. Yet, in school, my closest friends were all the loveliest girls. At first, I was pleasantly surprised, but my grandmother saw right through it.
“Ah, my dear,” she said, shaking her head. “It suits them just fine to have a plain Jane like you tagging along. Youre no threatwhod look twice at you when theyre around?”
The words stung, but she softened them later. “Dont fret, my sweet. Pretty faces fade. Remember, the brightest colours run fastest. Your time will come, love. Theres a lid for every pot.”
That “lid” didnt appear until I was 27. Until then, I worked hard, knowing I had only myself to rely on.
Then came Oliver, introduced by my friend Emily. Shed grown tired of his persistence”worse than a toothache,” she called it. “Take him off my hands, Gemma,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe itll work out. Im getting married anyway.”
I took to Oliver straight away, eager to smother him with love. He was charming, and Id waited long enough. No sense playing hard to get.
I even thought he seemed relieved, settling into my arms. We married quickly.
Grandma warned me, though. “Careful, love. That Olivers not done sowing his wild oats. Marry in haste, repent at leisure.”
But I wouldnt listen. We were inseparable, blissfully wrapped up in each other. Marriage gave me wings.
Then our son, James, was born. Oliver adored himreading bedtime stories, singing lullabies, spoiling him rotten. As James grew, he clung more to his father than to me. I didnt mind. Peace at home was all I wanted.
Five happy years passed before trouble knocked.
Maybe Emily envied meor perhaps shed never truly let Oliver go. Either way, she reeled him back in. I heard through the grapevine shed divorced, childless and free.
I felt hollow, my wings clipped. My happiness had been borrowed, it seemed. The tears felt endless. Explaining to James was agony. Now, I told the tales of his father. But the tears dried, and life went on. I held onto hope Oliver would come to his senses, if not for me, then for James.
Oliver returnedfor his passport. “Emily wants to make it official,” he mumbled. I refused. He shrugged and left. Soon, he had a replacement.
Ill never know what Emily offered him, but Oliver forgot us entirely. And yetIll admitEmily had always been the class beauty. Vivacious, carefree, effortlessly alluring. She spun pretty words like lace, though her eyes often strayed from their meaning. Id ignored it. A mistake.
I realised too late Emily had only lent Oliver to metemporarily. Her marriage ended, so she took back what was hers.
Twice, court summons came for divorce. I ignored them, clinging to hope.
Time passed. Oliver began to miss James, asking to see him. I agreed. By then, Id stopped pining. James and I had built our own life. He was twelve when disaster struck again.
Emily appeared at my door, smirking. “Still single, Gemma?”
“What do you want?” I bit out.
“Olivers in hospital. He wants to see James. In case well, you know.”
My legs buckled. “Whats wrong?”
“Major surgery tomorrow. He might not make it.”
“He will!” I shouted after her.
He survivedbut as a disabled man at 40, reliant on a cane. The question was: where would he go? Emily took him home, but I knew it wouldnt last.
I wanted him back immediately, but I waited. Let the dust settle.
Three months later, Emily called. “Oliver cant live without James.”
“Or is it you who cant live with him?” I snapped.
So Oliver returned. Emily had made his life unbearable. Caring for a disabled man was no picnic, after all.
He was bitter, withdrawn, angry. But love is patient. James and I tended to him daily, and slowly, he softened. In time, he even walked without his canelimping, but standing tall.
Six months later, Emily returnedwith a baby.
“How shall we share Oliver?” she announced. “Shes his.”
“Emily,” I said, weary, “you weave in and out like a weed. Why must you tangle our lives? When will you let us breathe?”
“Hes mine!” she shrieked.
And she was right. I dont blame Oliver. He went back. Old flames die hard, they say.
Grandma weighed in: “That mans as changeable as the wind, love.”
James and I were alone again. He comforted me as best he could: “Well manage, Mum.”
Oh, Oliveryou were the thorn in my side.
The oceans deep, but the human heart is deeper. Who knows what lurks beneath?
After Oliver, my soul felt barren. No one else came to warm it.
Time raced on. James married, left home. Then, by chance, I met Oliver again. He looked wretchedlost and lonely.
“Where are you now?” I asked gently.
“Nowhere. Just walking,” he replied.
He seemed adrift
Now, seven years on, were together. Even autumn has its golden days. Were raising our grandson. Happy? Yes. Perhaps this is lovetested and true.
P.S. Emily married a Frenchman and left with their daughter. Her parting shot to Oliver? “I leave you in Gemmas handsyour guardian angel.”
