**Falling for a Warm-hearted Woman, or So What If They Talk**
*”You’re leaving me for that country bumpkin?”* My wife’s voice trembled with disbelief.
*”Dont call her that, please. Its Emily. Ive made up my mind, Cynthia. Im sorry.”* I hurriedly stuffed my belongings into a suitcase, my hands unsteady.
*”I hope you come to your senses soon. This cant be real. Your colleagues, the neighbourstheyll laugh at you. Who have you set your sights on? Some unpolished, simple woman. What will we tell the children? That their refined father ran off to a farmhand?”* Cynthia twisted a handkerchief between her fingers, her knuckles white.
*”The children? Thank God theyre grown. Sophies nearly ready to marry, and Daniels already gone down his own reckless path. They dont listen to us anyway. As for the neighbours, colleagues, strangers in the street… I dont care what they think. Its my life. I dont pry into their bedrooms or hold a candle to their affairs.”* I tried to keep my voice calm, but the words felt hollow.
It wasnt working. When a marriage crumbles, the pain is unbearable for both.
Cynthia sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly out the window. I felt nothing for her. Not a shred of pity. Just emptiness.
Cynthia was my third wife. When I first saw her, my heart had fluttered, my soul opening to the unknown promise of happiness. Beautiful, polished, self-assured. I wasnt bad myselfhandsome enough to turn heads, with plenty of admirers. In my youth, I fell in love recklessly and married quickly. Disillusioned by the drudgery of domestic life, Id always fled. Only Cynthia had given me children.
I thought shed be my anchor, my last harbour. But time revealed the truth: like a melon, you never know how rotten it is until you cut it open. Love, once vibrant and sweet, had withered into something dry and bitter. In public, we played the perfect coupleadmired (or perhaps mocked) for our quiet, respectable life. The old ladies by the entrance would whisper as we passed, and wed glide past them as if on a red carpet.
But behind closed doors, everything changed.
Cynthia was no homemaker. The fridge was always empty, laundry piled high, dust gathering in every corner. Yet her nails were manicured, her hair sleek, her makeup flawless. She believed the world revolved around her, not the other way around. My wife allowed herself to be loved but never truly loved back. Her heart was locked, even to our children.
My mother lived with us. For years, she endured the chaos in silence. Then, wisely, she stepped inteaching Sophie and Daniel to cook, clean, and care for themselves. Cynthia, fancying herself high society (God knows why), insisted on calling them by their full namesSophia and Danielnever coddling them. The children naturally drifted toward their kind, fair grandmother.
Cynthia forbade idle chatter with the neighbours, greeting them with nothing but a stiff *”hello.”*
In the early years, I hadnt noticed any of this. I was happy, grateful for my family. Sophie was a straight-A student; Daniel barely scraped by. How could two children, raised the same, turn out so different? No matter how we tried, Daniel refused to study. By secondary school, he despised Sophie for her diligence. More than once, I had to pull them apart mid-fight.
Those were the Nineties.
After school, Daniel vanishedcaught up with some rough crowd. For three years, we heard nothing. Reported him missing, mourned, moved on. *”The apple doesnt fall far from the tree,”* my mother muttered, glancing at Cynthia.
Cynthia would scoff and lock herself in the bathroom, muffled sobs echoing through the door.
Then, just as suddenly, Daniel returnedhaggard, scarred, haunted. He brought a wife just as broken, eyes hollow. We took them in warily, afraid to cross him. He watched us with suspicion, always listening, barely speaking.
Sophie left soon after. She never marriedjust moved in with some unstable man, returning home bruised but never complaining. *”Sophie, leave him,”* my mother begged. *”Hell kill you one day.”*
*”Nana, its fine. Timothy loves me. The bruises? I slipped.”* The bright girl shed been was long gone.
And then, against all sense, I fell in love again.
After my shift at the factory, I dreaded going homethe arguments, the coldness, my mothers quiet jabs about my failed marriages and wayward children.
Emily worked in the canteencheerful, kind, warm. For years, Id barely noticed her. Then one day, I did. Her laughter was like spring rain, her jokes effortless. She was sunshine.
Nothing like Cynthia. Emilys hair was always in a messy bun, nails short and bare, her only makeup a smear of orange lipstick. But she radiated warmth. Her flat smelled of fresh pies, her fridge always full. She fed neighbours, friendsanyone who crossed her path.
I courted her properlyflowers, cinema dates, cafés.
At first, she resisted. *”Nicholas, I like you, but youre married. What will your children think?”*
I hesitated, like any man afraid to take the final step. But soon, I stayed over. Cynthia knew. The gossips made sure of that. She raged, called Emily *”some unwashed peasant,”* threatened to harm herself.
Six months later, I left. Emily was overjoyed but firm: *”Show me the divorce papers in a month, or this ends.”*
I did. We married. No regrets.
Sophie and Daniel visit now. Emily feeds them, fusses over them. Sophie left Timothy; Daniels steadier, expecting a child. *”Youre family,”* Emily tells them. *”Stick together. Dont drift through life alone.”*
My mother passed peacefully.
Cynthia? Age has stripped her of her pride. She turns away when we pass. We live streets apart, but I never look back.
Let them judge. Its my life. My choices. Ill answer for themnot to the whispers of strangers.
