MY HUSBAND MEANS MORE THAN BITTER GRIEVANCES
“Oliver, that’s the last straw! That’s it, we’re getting divorced! Don’t bother getting on your knees this time, it won’t help!” I insisted, drawing a bold line under our marriage.
Oliver, of course, didn’t believe me. He thought it was the same old routine: he’d go down on his knees, apologise, buy me another ring, and I’d forgive him. That’s happened more than once. But this time, I decided to finally break the marital chains. My fingers, down to my pinkies, were covered in rings, yet I wasn’t living at all. Oliver was drinking heavily, and it had got out of hand.
It all began quite romantically.
My first husband, Edward, disappeared without a trace during the mid-nineties. Those were frightening times in England and, to be honest, we all lived looking over our shoulders. Edward wasn’t the easiest man to live with. He liked to throw himself into questionable situationssharp-eyed, but with flimsy courage. If things didnt go his way, the house would ring with his tantrums. Im quite sure Edward was caught in some dodgy incident; I never heard from him again. I was left with two girls: Lucy, aged five, and Annie, just two. Five years passed in the shadow of his mysterious vanishing.
I thought Id lose my mind. Id loved Edward, stormy temper and all. We were inseparable, two halves of one. Id made up my mindit was over, my only purpose now was to raise my daughters. I buried my own hopes. Even so…
Life wasnt easy in those troubled days. I worked at a factory, earning my wages in the form of irons. I had to sell them at the weekend just to buy groceries. One winter, turning blue from the cold while flogging my wares at the market, a man approached. Pity shone in his face.
“Chilly, love?” the stranger asked.
“You could say that,” I managed a weak joke, though I was shivering so much my teeth chattered. But his presence seemed to give me a hint of warmth.
“Sorry, that was daft. Fancy warming up over a cuppa at the café? I’ll help you carry your unsold irons.”
“Why not, or I’ll freeze solid,” I managed, voice barely a whisper.
We never made it to the café. I took him toward my flat, asked him to mind my bag of irons at the entrance while I ran to collect my girls from nursery. My legs were numb with cold, but inside, I felt oddly comforted. Walking back with the kids, I spotted himOliverwaiting outside, stamping his feet and smoking to keep warm. I thought, “Ill offer tea, and lets see what happens!”
Oliver helped me haul my bag up six flights of stairs (the lift, of course, was out of order). As the girls and I struggled up to the third floor, Oliver was already heading down.
“Wait, my hero, where are you going? I cant let you leave without some hot tea!” I said, grabbing his sleeve with a frozen hand.
“Are you sure Im not imposing?” he said, glancing at the kids.
“Not at all! Take the girls by the hand, I’ll put the kettle on,” I said, with no trace of worry.
I didnt want to let him slip away. He already felt like family. Over tea, Oliver offered me a job as his assistant, with pay better than a whole years worth of factory irons.
Of course, I nodded eagerly, filled with gratitude.
Oliver, I learned, was separated and had a son by his first wife. Soon, we married, and he adopted my girls. We bought a four-bedroom flat, filled it with lovely furniture and the latest telly. Then we built a cottage in the countryside. Every summer we took holidays by the sea. It was a dream.
Seven blissful years floated by. But it seemed, when Oliver had it all, he began to drink, and often. At first, I ignored it. After all, he worked hard, surely he deserved some relaxation. When the drinking invaded his workday, I got worried. My pleas went unheard.
I should mentionIm ever the impulsive optimist. To distract Oliver from his pints, I decided to have a baby with himdespite being thirty-nine at the time. My friends weren’t surprised.
“Go on, Sarah, maybe well fancy being new mums at forty too,” they laughed.
Id always said, “If you get rid of a baby, you might regret it. But if you keep it, even if unexpected, youll never be sorry.”
Soon, I gave birth to twins. Now we were raising four daughters! Still, Oliver didnt stop drinking. I put up with it for a time, but then longed for some countryside air, a garden to keep me busy, animals to tend. Itd be healthy for the girls too, and perhaps keep Oliver out of the pub.
We sold the flat and the cottage, bought a house in a small market town, and opened a charming café. Oliver took up shootingrifle, all the paraphernalia, the woods around us rich with game.
All was going well, or so I thought, until one night Oliver came home utterly soused. I dont know what hed drunk, but he turned wildsmashed dishes, broke furniture, and finally stormed at us with his gun, firing it into the ceiling.
The girls and I fled to a neighbours house trembling. It was beyond terrifying.
In the morning, all was quiet. We crept back to a scene of ruin: smashed furniture and crockery, nothing to sit on, nothing to eat from, nowhere to sleep. Oliver lay passed out on the floor.
I grabbed what little survived, gathered the girls, and went to stay with Mum, who lived in the next village. She fussed, “Oh Sarah, what am I to do with all these girls? Go back to your husband! Family rows come and go. Itll pass!”
Mum always thought: so long as hes handsome, everything else is bearable.
A few days later, Oliver turned up. That was when I truly ended things. For what its worth, he didn’t remember a thing about his drunken rampage. Thought I was spinning yarns. It didnt matter to me anymore. I cut all ties. There was no going back.
I didnt know what the future held. But I reckoned it was better to be penniless and alive than risk Olivers rage again.
We sold the café for next to nothing and moved to a tiny house in a nearby village. The older girls found work and soon, thank heavens, married. The twins were just starting secondary school.
All my daughters loved Oliver and kept in touch, so I heard about him through them. He begged me to return, swore hed changed. The girls even pleaded, “Mum, stop being so stubborn. Dads apologised countless times! Think of yourself, youre not twenty-five anymore…” But I stood firm. I longed for peacenot drama.
Two years passed.
I started to miss Oliver. Loneliness crept in. I had to pawn all his old ringsnever managed to buy them back. It was a bitter pill to swallow. I found myself reminiscing; there was so much love in our home, and despite everything, Oliver had always loved all our daughters equally, cherished me, and always found it in him to say sorry. We were, for a time, a true family. Everyone has their own flavour of happiness. What more did I really want?
Now, the eldest only rang, never visited. Theyd lives of their own. The twins would soon fly the nest, leaving me in an empty house. Daughters are like young swansthey grow their feathers and soon take off.
Eventually, I had the twins ask their father how he really waswhether some other woman had moved in. The girls got all the details: Oliver lived and worked in another city, hadnt touched a drop since. No girlfriend, alone, and left them his exact address, just in case.
And so, here we aretogether again, five years on.
In the end, maybe I truly am an incorrigible adventurer. But what Ive learned is this: sometimes, the price of pride and old wounds is simply too high. And, despite everything, familyno matter how batteredis worth saving if love still lives.
