The phone call to the police was frantic: “There’s a man living with an underage girl next door! Come quickly!” The neighbours were insistent, their voices trembling with urgency.
A few months after our wedding, my wife and I had finally found a flat and taken out a mortgage to buy it. For weeks, I’d been the one making the trips aloneoverseeing renovations, coordinating builders. My wife visited less often, so I got to know the elderly couple next door. Being new to the area, we wanted to celebrate our move properly and decided to invite them.
The moment they sat down at our table and met my wife, their demeanour shifted. There was an odd tension in the air, but my wifeever gracefuldistracted them with warm smiles and light conversation. They left abruptly, though we were too wrapped up in our happiness to dwell on it.
Dawn hadnt even broken when a sharp rap at the door startled us awake. Standing on the threshold was a neighbourhood constable, his expression stern, suspicion burning in his eyes.
“Good morning. Im the local officer,” he said, flashing his badge. “I need to see your marriage certificateyou and your *wife*.”
Baffled, I rummaged through boxes of unpacked belongings until, after ten minutes, I found it. The constable scrutinised the document, then my wife, his brow furrowing. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he muttered finally.
“Mind telling me what this is about?” I asked.
“We received a report that a man was living here with an underage girllikely not even sixteen.”
A burst of laughter escaped me. The irony was too much. In truth, my wife was older than meI was twenty-two, she twenty-three. But with her petite frame, youthful face, and hair tied in a ponytail, she could easily pass for a schoolgirl. Meanwhile, the stress of securing the flat, months of sleepless nights, and my unshaven jaw had aged me beyond my years.
Time for a proper rest and a shavebefore my dear wife ended up married to a man who looked old enough to be her father.
