9October
Dear Diary,
I never imagined that my life would hinge on a single promise scribbled on a piece of paper. When Richard placed his hand over the will and kissed my knuckles, I felt a flicker of hope. He told me I was the only one mentioned, that my daughter would have everything she needed and would never trouble me. I clung to his words, even as the reality of my marriage to an Englishman seemed to demand no contracts or insurance. I believed in decency and humanitynaïvely, perhaps.
Our acquaintance began on a dating site. I, a retired schoolmistress from Leeds, longed to marry a foreigner. The idea of marrying a peer my own age held little appeal; caring for an ailing old man in the next town felt like a sentence. Overseas, older people seemed spry, lively, even adventurous. Richard was seventysix, I was fiftyfive, and I was the same age as his daughter, Emily.
We wrote to each other for a year, testing each others temperaments, sharing jokes, and slowly letting our personalities rub together. When I finally boarded the train to York, my purpose was clear: I would become Richards wife. He greeted me at the station, a tall, trim man, clutching a wilted bouquet of roses that had lost their scent. Part of me wanted to turn back, but the drama had just begun. The tired flowers lay in my hands, already faded.
Richard drove me to his imposing house and presented a modest lunch for two. I asked for a vase for the sorry roses; he handed me a cheap glass of water. The moment I placed the blossoms in it, their petals fell awayanother omen, perhaps.
Both of us understood there was no love to be found. I needed financial security; he needed a companion to look after him. Two solitary seniors had found a convenient agreement. He promised to make me his sole heir, yet promises, I learned, are not deeds.
Our wedding was understated. I became Mrs. Morley. The guests were few: Richards daughter and her husband with three children, and a family couple wed known. I was his third wife. In his first marriage he had twin daughters, Frances and Emily. Though Richard had always resisted children, his first wife defied his wishes and bore them. He adored the girls, yet never forgave his wifes stubbornness. When the twins turned eighteen, he left the family in protest; his wife died two years later, and he bequeathed his threestorey house, country cottage, three cars, and his business to the twins, even naming Frances as his successor.
Later he found another older woman, seven years his senior, who also had no desire for children. Their life seemed settled until her health declined. Richard tended to her with tendernessmassages, feeding, even changing diapersuntil she passed.
Tragedy struck again when Frances was found dead on a roadside under mysterious circumstances; her killer was never identified. Richard, left in bitter solitude, sank into depression. Emily never visited him during his grief. When he regained some composure, he resolved to marry again, using the internet for help. Thus our paths crossed.
Living with Richard, I soon realized that all the money flowed from his pockets. He was stingy, handing out the bare minimum for groceries, demanding written receipts for every purchase. When I asked for a little extra for makeup, he grimaced as if Id asked for a lemon. Yet each year we travelled on cruises and excursionshis lifelong dream.
I cared for him, learned his favourite dishes, kept watch over his health, staying by his side in both sorrow and joy. Then a stroke struck. He was rushed to the ICU, and I called Emily. She arrived, not to see her father, but to bring his updated will. All movable and immovable property goes to my daughter. My wife receives a sum determined by my daughter for a respectable living, she read. It was clear Richard had quietly rewritten his will in Emilys favour, perhaps to ease his conscience over the past.
Emily, still resentful, never set foot in our home again. Richard, at eightytwo, died peacefully after months of care in the hospital. I tended to him for half a year, feeding him, stroking his hand, talking to a man who no longer recognised anyone.
When his daughter Aisha (I renamed her to keep the English context) appeared at the doorway, she told me I must leave the house immediately, offering a modest sum to help me find a cheap room and promising social housing. You have nothing here, she said. I felt the cold sting of being cast out.
Legal advice warned me that suing over the will would be futile and costly, despite my rightful fifty percent claim. I remained in the house, which only infuriated Aisha more.
Then a thought struck me. I retrieved the original will from a drawer and showed it to Aisha. Here is Richards first will, where everything belongs to me. He was in senile dementia when he altered it. Perhaps he signed under duress. She fell silent, considering my words.
For a while I rented a modest flat in a less affluent part of York, using the car Richard left me and scraping together what little I could from Aishas begrudging allowance.
Now, a year later, I am married to Pierre, a widower I met in the park while jogging with his Labrador, Baxter. He noticed me one crisp morning, and we quickly fell into conversation. I run there daily to stay fit, and Pierre, a gentle soul, has brought warmth back into my life.
It seems the British do have a soft spot for women from the continent after all.
