15April
Dear diary,
Today I find myself tracing the strange path that led me to marry an Englishman and, by some twist of fate, almost lose everything.
When Edward first wrote to me, his elegant hand slipped across the screen of a chatroom, promising companionship beyond borders. I was living in Manchester, retired, and the prospect of a foreign husband seemed a bright escape from the dull routine of caring for an aging parent. I had no desire to settle down with a local peerthe thought of looking after a frail grandfather terrified me. Overseas retirees, I heard, were spry, adventurous, still traveling.
Edward was seventysix, I was fiftyfive, and I was the same age as his daughter, Poppy. Our correspondence stretched over a year; we exchanged jokes, shared stories, and slowly peeled back each others façades.
When the day came, I flew to York with a single purpose: to become Edwards wife. He met me at the station, tall and impeccably dressed, clutching a wilted bunch of roses that had long lost their scent. Part of me wanted to turn back then, but the performance had only just begun. He ushered me into his sleek black car and drove me to his spacious Victorian house. A modest lunch for two awaited us, and I asked for a vase for the sad roses. He handed me a glass of water; as soon as the petals touched the liquid, they fell apart like paper. It felt like an omen from above.
Both of us sensed early on that love would not be the foundation of our union. I needed financial security; Edward needed a companion to look after him in his twilight years. Two solitary souls had found a convenient match. He promised to name me his sole heir, but as anyone who has watched the empty words of the elderly can attest, promises are easy to utter and hard to keep.
We were married within weeks, and I became Mrs. Morel. The ceremony was small: Edwards daughter Poppy, her husband, their three children, and an old family friend. I was his third wife. His first marriage had produced twin daughters, Frances and Poppy, whom he had never wanted; he had devoted his life to selfimprovement and travel. When the twins turned eighteen, he left his first wife in a dramatic exit. She never recovered from his departure and, two years later, died in her sleep, bequeathing the threestorey house, a country cottage, three cars, and his business to the girls, with Frances taking over the firm.
Edward soon found a new partner, an elderly lady seven years his senior, who also had no wish for children. Their quiet life was shattered when his first wife fell ill; Edward tended to her with devotion, massaging, feeding, even changing her diapers until she passed.
Then tragedy struck again: Frances was found dead on a roadside under mysterious circumstances. No murderer was ever identified. Edward sank into depression, while Poppy never once visited him. After a period of mourning, Edward revived his spirit and turned once more to the internet, where fate introduced me to his world.
Our married life began in earnest. All the money belonged to Edward; he was tightfisted, handing out the bare minimum for groceries and demanding written receipts for every purchase. When I asked for a few pounds for a new lipstick, his face twisted as though hed just bitten a lemon. Yet each year we did manage to embark on a cruise or a guided tourhis longheld dream of seeing the world. I grew to cherish Edward, admired his age, learned to cook his favourite dishes, tended to his health, and stayed by his side through thick and thin.
The inevitable came one morning: a stroke. An ambulance whisked Edward to the intensive care unit. I called his daughter Poppy, who arrived not to see her father but to confront me.
Evelyn, she said, brandishing a newly drafted will, my father has left all his movable and immovable property to me. He has set aside a modest sum for his wife, determined by me, for a decent living.
It became clear that Edward, in the fog of his failing mind, had quietly altered his testament in favour of his daughter, driven by an old guilt for having abandoned his first family. Poppy, nursing a silent grudge, never set foot in our home again.
For six months I tended to Edward in the hospital, feeding him from a spoon, stroking his hand, speaking to him even when his mind drifted away. He was eightytwo when death finally claimed him.
On the threshold of the house we shared, Poppy appeared, cold and resolute.
Youll have to leave this place, Evelyn. Ill give you enough money to rent a cheap room, then youll be on social housing. Id go back to my homeland if I were you. Theres nothing left for you here.
I imagined myself shivering on the street, penniless and alone.
What youre saying doesnt matter, Poppy. Im still grieving my husbands death. Lets talk later, I managed, though I had no idea what to say.
Six months later, solicitors discouraged me from suing; the case looked hopeless and the legal costs would be astronomical. By law I was entitled to fifty percent of the estate, yet Edwards revised will erased that right. I remained in his house, a fact that infuriated Poppy.
Get out, Evelyn. You stole an old mans peace, and now you think you can cling to his legacy? she snapped.
In a flash of desperate inspiration I produced the original will from the drawer.
Poppy, heres the first testament where Edward left everything to me. He was suffering from senility when he rewrote it. Perhaps he signed under duress, maybe even at gunpoint. Prove it, if you can.
She fell silent, considering my words.
For a while I rented a modest flat in a less expensive part of York, driving Edwards old sedan to make ends meet, scraping together what little Poppy allowed me to keep.
Now, a year after Edwards death, I am married to Pierre, a widower I met in the park while jogging with my terrier, Bramble. He was charmed by my determination to stay fit and by the quiet strength Id gathered through my trials. The English, it seems, still hold a soft spot for women from the east, especially those who have survived so much.
The road has been long and winding, but I have learned that promises are fragile, wills can be rewritten, and the only true safety lies in ones own resolve.
Evelyn.
