**FELL IN LOVE WITH A COSY WOMAN or WELL, LET THEM TALK**
“Youre leaving me for that that bumpkin?” my wife stammered, disbelief etched across her face.
“Dont call her that, please. Its Emily. The decisions made, Patricia. Im sorry,” I replied, hastily stuffing my belongings into a bag.
“I hope you come to your senses soon. This cant be real. What will your colleagues say? The neighbours? A man of your standing, running off with some unpolished simpleton? What do we tell the kids? That their cultured father ditched them for awhat, a farmhand?” Patricia twisted a handkerchief in her hands, her voice trembling.
“The kids? Thank heavens theyre grown. Sophies nearly ready to settle down, and Olivers already on his own slippery path. They dont take orders from us anymore. As for the neighbours, colleagues, or random strangers on the street I couldnt care less. Its my life. I dont peek into anyone elses bedroomwhy should they judge mine?” I tried to soften the blow, but it was no use. When a marriage falls apart, its agony for both.
Patricia sat at the kitchen window, staring blankly outside. I didnt feel an ounce of pity. Not a drop. My heart was a vacuum.
Patricia was my third wife. When I first saw her, my heart flutteredmy soul flung open for uncharted happiness. Beautiful, polished, self-assured. And I wasnt exactly a slouch myself back then. Knew I had my pick of admirers. In my youth, I fell in love fast and married fasteronly to bolt when the routine set in. The kids only came along with Patricia.
I thought she was my final harbour, my anchor. Alas Neither melons nor wives show their true selves straight away. Over time, love turned from juicy and sweet to a shrivelled-up raisin. In public, we played the perfect couplethe envy (or was it scorn?) of the neighbourhood. Grandmas by the doorstep would whisper as we passed, and wed glide by like we were on the red carpet.
But behind closed doors? A different story.
First off, Patricia was no homemaker. The fridge was always empty, laundry piled high, dust bunnies multiplying in corners. Yet her nails were immaculate, her hair sleek, her makeup flawless. She believed the world revolved around hernot the other way around. My wife merely permitted herself to be loved. Patricia fancied herself a star of unimaginable magnitude. The doors to her soul were lockedeven to me, even to the kids.
My mum lived with us. She bit her tongue for ages, watching the chaos. Then, wisely, she stepped in. Gently, she taught the grandkidsSophie and Oliverto cook, clean, and care for themselves. Patricia, convinced she was high society (heaven knows why), insisted on calling them by their full namesnever a term of endearment. The kids drifted from her, clinging instead to their kind, fair grandmother.
Patricia forbade idle chats with neighbours, dismissing them as “pointless drivel.” Shed offer nothing more than a stiff “hello.”
In the early years, I noticed none of this. I was just happy, living, cherishing each day. Sophie was a straight-A student; Oliver, a hopeless slacker. Odd, how two kids raised the same could turn out so opposite. We couldnt drag Oliver up to even a B, no matter how we tried. By Year 10, he loathed Sophie for her diligence. Sometimes I had to pull them apart mid-scuffle.
This was the nineties.
After school, Oliver ran off with some dubious crowd and vanished. Three years without a word. We filed missing reports, grieved, moved on. Mum would glance at Patricia and mutter, “A colt stumbles when the mare leads him astray.” Patricia would huff and lock herself in the bathroom, sobbing.
Then, out of nowhere, Oliver returneda wreck. Gaunt, scarred, haunted. He brought a wife just as battered, her eyes hollow. We took them in warily, too afraid to cross him. Hed eye us sideways, jump at silence.
Sophie left soon afternot quite married, just shackled to some unstable bloke. Shed visit covered in bruises but never complained. “He loves me,” shed insist. Mum begged her to leave, but Sophie stayed, a shadow of her studious past.
And then there was me, old fool that I was, struck by love. After shifts at the factory, home was the last place I wanted to beOlivers temper, Patricias coldness, Mums pointed remarks about my three failed marriages and wayward kids.
At the factory canteen, there was Emily. Cheerful, warm, kind. For years, Id eaten her food without a second glanceuntil I noticed her laughter, bright as a spring brook. She was older than me, a widow, her son grown and gone.
Emily was Patricias opposite: hair in a messy bun, nails short and bare, lipstick a bold orange. But she radiated warmth. Her flat smelled of fresh pies, her fridge always stocked. She fed neighbours, friendsanyone. I couldnt help falling for her cosy, nurturing soul.
I courted her properlyflowers, cinema, cafés. At first, she hesitated. “Youve a wife, Kevin. What will your kids think?” But I was already teetering on thin ice.
Soon, I stayed over. Patricia found outbusybodies made sure of that. She raged, called Emily names, threatened self-harm. Six months later, I moved out. Emily was overjoyed but firm: “Show me divorce papers in a month, or Im done.”
I did. We married. No regrets. Sophie and Oliver visit now. Emily feeds them, heals them. Sophies left her brute; Olivers softened, even expecting a child. Emily reconciled them: “Youre family. Stick together.”
Mums gone. Patricias aged, her haughtiness faded. She wont speak to me. We live streets apart, but I never look back.
Judge me if you willbut its my life, my choices. Ill answer for them myself.
