Once, in the hazy middle of my second pregnancy, a girl cradling a newborn appeared at my doorstep.
I could not have imagined such a scene unfolding in my life. It became clear that I had never truly known with whom I had shared all those years.
I met Adam when I was fifteen; he was seventeen. Five years later we wed, and within a year I was expecting. When our daughter arrived, Adams joy lit the room. He showered her with attention and threw himself into work even harder.
He bought a modest twobed flat in a quiet suburb of Birmingham, and the little girl became his centre. He walked her to nursery, to ballet, to art class. They strolled together along the canals and watched cartoons on rainy evenings. My family seemed perfect. Then, one day, everything shifted.
While I was pregnant again, a knock sounded on the front door. On the threshold stood a girl of about twenty, a baby swaddled against her chest. I stepped aside and invited her in. She introduced herself as Ethel and said she was nineteen. Ethel was Adams other wife.
Two weeks earlier she had given birth to a son and had decided to put a point on the i of their secret arrangement. She told me they had been seeing each other for two years and that she would not simply disappear. I called Adam and asked him to come home. His reply left me stunned:
Darling, weve lived together well enough. Lets keep it that way. I wont change a thing. I wont divorce, but I wont abandon Isis either.
I could not accept that. With tears blurring my vision, I seized his suitcase and tossed it out the door. He hurried after me, shouting:
Love, youll regret this. The lease is in my name; you and the children will have to move to a rundown council house on the edge of town. Dont even think about maintenance; my official salary is a pittance. Figure out how youll survive.
Those words, spoken by the man I loved, seemed surreal. I knew then I could not let my children grow up under his shadow. Adam slipped away with Ethel, and I gathered my belongings and those of my children and retreated to my flat.
There was no time for more sorrow. Adam quickly filed for divorce, and I spent my last few pounds on a competent solicitor. The lawyer, with a practiced smile, handled the paperwork, and the flat was transferred to me and the kids. I never even applied for spousal maintenance.
Seven years later I married again. This new husband, Thomas, could not be more different from Adam; he is a kind, steady man. It turned out that Ethel had only been after money from my ex, and when Adam found himself homeless, she cast him out. He tried to return to me, but after what he had said, I could not welcome him back.
The whole episode remains a strange, lingering dream, its logic as fluid as the mist over the River Thames, its images shifting like shadows in a candlelit room.
