I have never trusted my husband, and so I have always had to rely on myself. That is how our marriage turned out.
Edward was handsome as a summer rose and the life of every gathering. He drank only a modest amount, never smoked, and showed little interest in football, fishing or hunting. In short, he was a gentleman, fit for a manor.
Because of those pleasant traits, I suspected that Edward sought comfort beyond the walls of our home. Men of his kind were not easy to find, and a huntress would inevitably appear.
What steadied my nerves was his devotion to our little boy, Thomas. Edward adored his son and spent every spare moment with him, so I thought his fierce paternal love might be enough to keep our family together.
At school I was teased for my flamingred hair and freckles that dotted my face like a scattering of wheat. My mother, a striking beauty herself, would tell me, Ethel, youre my ugly duckling. Forgive the harsh comparison, but its the bitter truth. No one will take you for a wife, so you must stand on your own. Study hard, build a career, and if a decent fellow ever comes along, be a dutiful wife. Those words lodged in my memory for life.
After winning the gold medal at school, I went to university, where I met my future husband. I could not understand why such a desirable young man would notice me. Later Edward confessed that I was the only girl he dared approach. I never wore makeup, used no gaudy colours, dressed plainly, and knew nothing of flirting. When I realised Edward was seriously courting me, I decided to seize the chance. I proposed marriage. The bold offer startled him, but I promised to be meek, obedient and faithful, insisting that love would grow in time. He eventually agreed, though reluctantly, and his mother, Margaret, gave her assent.
When Edward first introduced me to his mother, Margaret glanced at me with disapproval, seeing only my freckles and red hair. The boy is as bright as the sun, she thought, but what a speckled girl to have as a daughterinlaw. The meeting was far from pleasant.
I sensed her displeasure, but I could not afford to lose my chance. I visited Margaret alone, bringing tea. This time she found me quite agreeable and mused, Im getting used to her. I swore to be a loyal and obedient wife, and that promise outweighed any superficial flaws.
Margaret had been abandoned long ago by a lover who later returned, broken and unwelcome. She spent her life wondering whether forgiveness was possible, yet the pain lingered like a splinter. Raising a son alone had been hard, so she finally approved Edwards choice, realizing that I would wait for him on any road, even the roughest.
A year later Thomas was born, a perfect replica of his handsome father, to Margarets delight. Edward doted on him like a moth around a flame; Thomas became his whole world. Yet Edwards affection for me never blossomed. My love for him remained muted; our life was a calm routine. I washed and ironed his shirts, prepared meals, kissed his cheek at night. He handed me his entire salary, gave flowers on my birthday, and kissed me each morning before departing for work. It felt more like a ritual than romance.
Five years on, Edward finally discovered a feeling, but not within our marriage. He fell for a stunning woman named Beatrice, whose beauty seemed otherworldly. She returned his affection, and they met in cafés, on park benches and at friends flats. The secrecy wore him down; he became increasingly distant from me, and Thomas saw a father irritated rather than joyful. Beatrice demanded, Either marry me or we remain friends; I have no patience for old widows.
Edward was torn. He did not wish to lose Beatrice, yet his son meant the world to him. For a moment he saw no obstacle in his wife. When Thomas was five, Edward packed his belongings and left.
I recalled my mothers harsh lessons. Though her words had once seemed cruel, they now fortified me. I understood that I would survive his departure without scandal, without leaping from a bridge or drowning in three rivers of tears.
Time passed, and the memory of that bitter chapter lingered like a splinter in my heart. Happiness, I learned, is a free bird that lands wherever it wishes.
When Edward finally returned, I told him, The door will always be open, but do not tarry. Thomas loves you; do not make him suffer. He lingered for months, torn between son and lover. I kept his old toothbrush in a separate cup in the bathroom; each time he washed his hands, the brush stared back at him, a mute rebuke. Once he slipped it into his pocket, vowing to discard it, only to find a brandnew brush waiting in the cup on his next visit.
The kitchen always held his favourite mug of hot coffee, and the hallway waited with a pair of slippers for his return. These tiny domestic signs gnawed at his conscience. He could not explain why he left; some unseen force pulled him toward Beatrice, tearing his soul apart.
He asked himself how to avoid hurting those he loved, but found no answer. I could have barred his entry, cursed the interloper, yet I remained silent, and each time he left, I whispered, Come back, Edward. Do not forget us.
Beatrice, weary of the chaos surrounding Thomas, warned him, If I leave, it will be because of your son; you cherish him more than me. This pattern continued for years.
Friends urged me, Ethel, why not marry someone else? Your son needs a father every day, not just on holidays. Youre still youngforget Edward. I listened, sighed, and said nothing. Their pleas faded; I became accustomed to standing alone.
Years slipped by. Edward ceased visiting Thomas. The father and son finally met only on neutral ground as Thomas finished school. Twelve long years had passed since Edwards departure. I placed a firm period on that chapter and stopped waiting. With renewed vigor, I booked a holiday abroad, where a brief, uncomplicated romance blossomednothing more than a fleeting flirtation.
Nine months later Thomas welcomed a sister, Mary. My friends were astonished at my decisive step. They gathered at the maternity ward, awaiting my arrival with the newborn. I emerged, weary yet radiant, cradling a pinkribbontied bundle. Hello, ladies! Please love and cherish my little Mary! I beamed.
One friend snickered, And what shall we call her by patronymic? I retorted, Shell grow into her name! Their jokes could not dim my joy; my life now revolved around raising Mary.
Mary adored her brother, never questioning his fathers absence. When she turned three and started nursery, the other children taught her that families could have both mums and dads. She began to call Thomas dad, which was both funny and bittersweet.
One evening, a hesitant knock sounded at my door. Mary darted to the entrance, shouting, Its my father! I looked through the peephole and saw Edward standing there, older and unexpected. I opened the door wider.
May I come in, Eleanor? he asked, shifting from foot to foot.
Come in, if youre here, I replied, trying to mask my surprise.
He set down two overpacked bags and removed his backpack. Mary ran to him, hugging him tightly. Mum, thats my father, isnt it?
Seeing the tears in my eyes, I answered, Yes, Mary, thats your father.
He lifted the girl, kissed her freckled nose, ruffled her golden curls, and called her my little ginger. He then turned to me, pressing a kiss to my hand. Thank you, Eleanor. Will you forgive me? he pleaded, attempting to kneel. I gently took his elbow, preventing him from dropping to his knees.
Hello, my bitter honey, I said softly. You were gone for seventeen years, but theres no hatred left. Who can dwell on the past? We need a father for Thomas.
Thomas stood nearby, eyes wide with astonishment, smiling faintly.
A few weeks later, after the shock subsided, I called a curious friend and said, You wanted to know my daughters patronymic? She is Mary Victorina. Remember thatno alternatives.
