**Diary Entry**
Seven years Robert and Lydia lived together, inseparable since grammar school. Children hadn’t come—perhaps fate’s oversight. Robert’s beloved Gran insisted: “Wed properly, dear ones! God’s blessing will follow, granting heirs.” To Robert, Gran’s word was gospel. So, he formally proposed to his common-law wife.
We held a lavish wedding in York—exchanged rings, signed the register. Yet during the toast, champagne flutes were meant to shatter for luck. Mine splintered beautifully; Lydia’s merely rolled away unbroken. Guests murmured loudly, “Bad omen, that! No peace for this pair.” We laughed it off. “Nonsense!”
But after the ceremony, Lydia changed. As my lawful wife, she grew domineering. Nothing pleased her—petty criticisms escalated until she declared, “We erred, Robert. We’re chalk and cheese. Best part ways.”
I blamed Mother-in-law. She was like some fairytale miser, never satisfied—demanding attention, money, even space in her Leicestershire semi. My “meagre earnings” drew constant scorn. I endured both women’s barbs a year before hearing: “Leave.”
“Is this *your* final decision, Lydia?”
“Mother has nothing to do with it!” she snapped.
Slowly packing, I hoped she’d relent. She didn’t flick an eyelash.
“Farewell, wife. Sorry if I failed you,” I sighed.
“Goodbye!” The door slammed behind me.
Yet gloom didn’t linger. I was tall, fit—easy prey for admirers. Eleanor, a colleague, noticed my low spirits. We met after work—a park stroll, coffee in a cosy Chelsea café. I confessed my life; she empathised, sighed, reassured me. Then suddenly: “Robert, haven’t you seen how I adore you? Blind, are you?”
I’d guessed her feelings. At work, she’d blush or pale when I approached, voice faltering. Lovely as a fragrant rose, I’d admired but never acted—then I was married! Now? “Why refuse a willing heart?”
We arrived at work together next dawn. Colleagues exchanged knowing glances. Eleanor had succeeded. All knew she’d craved me but respected the wife barrier. I moved into her Kensington flat.
Eleanor fluttered about me like a firefly—anticipating needs, pampering, radiant. She warmed my soul. I nicknamed her “Glow-worm.” She introduced me to her father, a Whitehall official. Observing her devotion, he decreed: “If she’s set, live together. We’ll arrange a wedding later. First, I’ll discern your mettle.” Father never knew I was married. Eleanor dared not tell.
Life glowed! We holidayed in Crete—Father funded it. “Spare nothing for my girl’s joy!”
Then three months later, Lydia summoned her lawful husband home. “I’m expecting. The child needs its father.” Reluctantly, I returned. Eleanor released me but whispered, “I’ll wait forever, Robert.”
Six months on, Lydia bore a girl—Beatrice. A week later, Eleanor called from the maternity ward. *She’d* had a daughter. Emily.
I dashed there with flowers. Eleanor’s father held crimson roses, statue-still. I kissed Eleanor, handed her blooms. She saw my panic. “Our daughter, Robert! Congratulate me!”
I stood dumbstruck. Calculating dates… She cut in: “Don’t fret. Emily and I won’t impede you.”
Father didn’t acknowledge me.
Thus, I lived two lives. Both women discovered each other—Lydia about Eleanor, Eleanor about Beatrice. Both suffered silently. Lydia regretted ejecting me, “reaping bitter fruit.” Eleanor blamed nothing—she had her love’s child! My torture? Loving both girls deeply.
Soon Emily asked, “Why didn’t you sleep here, Papa?” Beatrice questioned, “Why don’t you smell like Mummy?” Confusion tangled us.
Visiting Eleanor, I confronted Father. “Lydia, take Emily out. Robert and I must talk.”
Once alone, he stated: “Will you hop between them indefinitely? A half-hearted son-in-law suits me ill. Stay—I’ll provide fully. Leave? Never return. We’ll raise Emily unaided. Blood binds us. But decide *now*.”
I sought Gran’s counsel that day.
“Choose one, boy! Gaunt and greying before forty? Unseemly! Fret not for the jilted woman—she’ll remarry. You string them both along!”
“Gran! Don’t ask me to sever a wing!”
“Wander too long, Robert, and lose *both* wings! Recall: grasp at two rabbits, catch neither. Why dally with Eleanor?”
“I was cast out!”
“So? Flings unstitch souls. See where yours lies tangled!”
I stopped visiting Eleanor, fearing Father. Yet increasingly, I longed *only* for her—her quiet devotion had claimed me. Finally, divided beyond bearing, I divorced Lydia. *One wing discarded*, I thought.
Packed, I hurried to Eleanor. “Beloved, I’m yours at last!”
“Robert… I’m engaged. Father introduced us. My diplomat fiancé—we relocate to Algeria next week.”
*Second wing broken.* Wingless, soul-wounded, I retreated to Mum. She adores me unconditionally. Gran, just but stern, prodded me toward self-discovery.
Then Lydia summoned me—a businesslike meeting.
“Sign Beatrice’s emigration papers. I join my sister abroad indefinitely.”
“Very well.” I understood—daughters would vanish. Both wives had fled like startled hares.
Two lone years followed. I rebuffed flirtations, avoided company. Gran encouraged: “True love resurfaces, Robert! Then you’ll know whose love was fleeting.”
Fate relented. A timid knock at my office door. Eleanor stood there—my Glow-worm!
“Surprise! I’m home! Father’s livid… He still opposes you.” She panted.
“Dumbfounded. Your husband?”
“Remains in Algeria. We parted… Hearts dictate paths! Emily and I are here for good! Unless… you’ve changed?”
“I face your father gladly! Just—stay!” Joy stunned me.
We married discreetly at the registry—no guests, just posh dresses, rings, a toast. Finally united!
We faced Father lawfully wed. “Congratulations,” he said stiffly. Chided me: “I offered my girl long ago… Fussing over trifles!”
“As promised: flat keys. And funds. Perhaps grant me a grandson?”
Nine months later, Eleanor birthed Harriet.
Father jested, “Contrary as ever! I requested a boy!”
“I’
And as Harriet gurgled in my arms that rainy Tuesday in Bath, contentment settling deeper than any champagne toast ever could, I finally understood Gran had been right—love wasn’t flightless birds, but roots grown strong beneath storm-scarred trees.
