Dear Diary,
I have never loved a woman quite like I loved Victoria. Even after six years of marriage we never managed to have children. She is seven years younger than me; I married her just after she turned eighteen, thinking we had all the time in the world to start a family later. All my energy went into making our home comfortable. After finishing the flats refurbishment I set about building a country cottage, then a little bathhouse. I bought acres of seedlings, exotic plants, and planted ten varieties of strawberries. The centerpiece of my garden was always the chrysanthemum Victorias favourite flower. She would often tell me, If you want a lifetime of happiness, grow chrysanthemums. Thats the old English wisdom. So I kept buying new cultivars, convinced that a blooming garden would bring us joy.
Come October the chrysanthemums truly owned the garden. Their violet, pink and white needlelike heads turned the whole plot into a splash of colour, earning the flowers the nickname the queen of autumn. Neighbours walking past would crane their necks, admiring the display. What a splendid couple, theyd mutter, everythings growing, thriving. Yet I never let myself rest. From dawn till dusk I laboured, and Victoria always helped with a smile. I didnt want her to work elsewherenot out of jealousy so much as a genuine desire to protect her from any hardship. A husband provides; a wife keeps the hearth warm, I would say, and that became my motto.
At first Victoria welcomed my domestic enthusiasm. She delighted in cooking elaborate meals, baking cakes, canning vegetables and making berry preserves. When the kitchen chores were done she turned to craftsknitting stylish jumpers for me, embroidering napkins with beads, even dabbling in watercolours. Over time, though, she began to wonder about our tiny future. Whats all this for? she asked herself quietly. She didnt need much, just my presence, but the thought of a child lingered. I could picture the day Id say, Darling, Ive prepared the soil for our familys growth. Now its up to you. I could almost hear her reply, Im sorry, Alex, but well never have heirs. My sister is childless too, you know.
My love for Victoria was real, but the emptiness of that hope felt like a dead end. Inevitably I feared she would one day leave in search of someone who could give her children. Those dark thoughts grew heavier, and I sensed she was reaching the breaking point. I never once reproached her, not a word, not a glance. Workmates hinted that I should start a family, gossip fluttering like restless sparrows. I laughed it off at first, saying the flat was still unresolved, then later that a country house would solve everything, finally concluding, Were perfectly fine as we are. There was also Inna, a colleague who was openly smitten with me. She smiled sweetly, brushed my shoulder in the mornings, and never concealed her feelings, yet she never tried to interfere. Victoria knew of Inna, but I assured her she was no rival.
One evening I returned home to find the kitchen still warm from dinner and a note on the table. Victorias neat handwriting read: Beloved Alex, Im sorry we never built the family we dreamed of. Live your life without me. Forever yours, Victoria. I was stunned. All those years I had devoted to her, carried her in my arms, ignored the world, believing my little island of happiness would last forever. Now the cottage, the polished flat, the fragrant garden all seemed pointless. I thought, If shes gone, shes really gone. No point in chasing whats already dead. I tried to rationalise: People manage without children; they get on. I sank into a gloom that lasted ten long years.
When a sudden work assignment sent me to the south, I missed the last train and had to buy a ticket to Swansea instead. I rushed onto the departing carriage, breathless, and found a seat beside a woman gazing out the window. Good evening, I said.
She turned, eyes widening. Victoria? I blurted, halfcollapsed.
Its Alex? she replied, stunned. We fell into each others arms as if no time had passed, standing there mute, the years collapsing into a single breath. Tell me everything, she whispered. Hows the family? Kids?
I managed, cheeks flushing, We were married seven years. You remember Inna? My wife we have two daughters now. She smiled sadly, I have a husband and two boys. I jumped into my marriage like diving into water, trying to escape myself. Life is steady now. My husbands a senior manager, we moved to Manchester, our children are my whole world.
She confessed, I once stood at your doorstep, cried, then left. Bridges burnt, water spilled cant be gathered again. Yet I still love you, Alex, to the bone. You appear in my dreams. I replied, Life scattered us, but if you call, Ill fly, Ill crawl, Ill do anything. She shook her head, I cant hurt my husband. Hes good to me, loves our boys, wishes for a daughter, treats me like a queen. Perhaps thats more than loveit’s a sanctuary for my soul.
That night she whispered, Ill give you this night, and myself. I want to drink your breath, die in your touch, tear my soul apart. This fairytale night will be enough for me forever. She exhaled with a strange relief.
The next morning the train pulled into the station. Victoria, neatly dressed, waited anxiously for the arrival, eager to reunite with her family. Watching her preparations, I felt a pang of jealousy as if the sleepless night of longing had finally been answered. She kissed me on the cheek, waved to her welcoming party, and ran onto the platform where a tall man stood with two boys, clutching a massive bouquet of white chrysanthemums. She embraced them, turned, met my eyes and whispered, Goodbye, my love. I nodded, stepping slowly out of the carriage, watching them disappear. So it ends, I thought. Happiness cant be forced. Time to move on.
Nine months later Victoria gave birth to a little girl. Her husband was overjoyed, and the new life seemed to seal the circle that had begun so long ago.
