DIFFERENT PEOPLE
My wife, Emily, wasnt like anyone else I knew. Exceptionally beautiful, yesan English rose with golden hair, striking dark eyes, a stunning figure. She was passionateespecially in bed, where every encounter felt like wildfire. There was so much thrill at first, I never stopped to think. Then she got pregnant. We married, as was proper.
Our son, Daniel, was born: the very image of his mother, blond hair and those same dark eyes. Everything seemed typical: nappies, babygrows, first steps, first words. Emily acted as any new mum would, cooing over the baby, taking pride in every milestone.
Things began to change when Daniel hit his teenage years. Out of nowhere, Emily took up photography. She was always snapping photos, signed up for courses on weekends, and seemed forever trailing after something with her camera.
What more could you possibly want? I asked once. You’ve got a good job as a solicitor. Isnt that enough?
Its solicitor, not solicitor, she corrected gently.
Alright, a solicitor then. Pay more attention to the family, instead of running off all over the place.
I didnt even know what bothered me, truth be told. She never neglected the house. Dinner was always ready, the flat tidy, our son’s schoolwork sortedcome home after work, flopped in front of the telly just as a proper Englishman should. Yet, something irked me. It was as though Emily drifted somewhere I couldnt follow. She was there, but not quite present. Never watched telly with me, never talked about whatever was interesting on the news. She’d feed us and then disappear back to her photos.
Are you someones wife or not? I snapped, catching her at the computer again.
Emily would simply go quiet, folding in on herself.
She started traveling to far-flung places. Took her annual leave and dashed off somewhere with her rucksack and that camera of hers. I never understood it.
Lets go visit the Smiths in their new place, Id say. Theyve built a proper shed, got homemade cider, and its about time we started thinking about a little weekend cottage ourselves.
Shed refuse, but always invited me on her trips. Once, I relented. Absolutely dreadful! Foreign crowds, nobody speaking a word of English, food so spicy I thought Id combust. And as for the scenerynever understood the appeal.
After that, she travelled solo. Even quit her job.
What about your pension? I objected. And anyway, who do you think you aresome famous photographer? Do you know how much money youd need to break into that?
She never answered. Then, one day, she confided, hesitantly,
Im hosting my first exhibition. My own, just mine.
Everyone has an exhibition, I muttered. Big deal.
Still, I went to the opening. Couldnt make heads or tails of it. Strange facessome downright plainwrinkled hands, seagulls flying over grey water. Everything just as odd as Emily herself.
I laughed it off later. But then, she bought me a car. Just turned up and handed me the keys. Were a family, so you ought to have it. Shed earned the money through photography gigs, running around with commissions.
Thats when I felt the first stirrings of unease. What kind of strange creature had moved in, passing for my wife? Where had all this money come fromother men? No one achieved that from a simple hobby. Was she fooling about? And if not now, surely she would.
I even tried to set her straight, just gave her a light slap across the cheek. Suddenly she grabbed a kitchen knife, slashed at me wildlytwo long stitches across my stomach. Lucky she hadnt meant it, a fit of hysteria. She apologised afterwards. I never raised my hand again.
She adored cats. Would take in any stray, mend them, find them loving homes. We always had two under our own roofsoft, loving, harmless creatures, but people they werent! How could anyone love cats more than her own husband?
One day, one of her beloved cats died in her arms at the vet. She couldnt save him. Emily was beside herselfcrying, drinking brandy, blaming herself for days on end. I got fed up and snapped,
Might as well start mourning the spiders!
She shot me a look so cold I fell silent, shrugged, and left. Let her do as she pleased.
Our friends were sympathetic; even Emilys friends sided with me. They said shed well and truly lost herself. Thats when I found comfort with the woman next doorSusan, who, incidentally, had been Emilys childhood friend. Susan was much simpler, easier to read. Worked as a cashier, never cared for art, always up for a chat or a tumble. She drank a lot, but then, I never planned to marry her.
I waited for Emily to notice, to cause a scene, chuck a plate, accuse me, and fight it out of her system. Then Id say, Well, what about you? Where do you disappear to? Maybe then wed forgive each other and set things right. And as for Susan, thered be no need for her.
But Emily said nothing. Just looked at me, hurt. Our relationship, even in bed, shrivelled up. She moved to the spare room.
Daniel grew up, got his degree at university. Took after his motherdark eyes, blonde hair, and mysterious as she was.
So, when are you giving me grandchildren? Id ask.
Hed just grin, said he wanted to do something meaningful and find true love first. Wait for grandchildren, dad. Foreign, unknowablehis mothers blood. He and Emily always understood each other perfectly, didnt even need words. I felt like an outsider, unnerved by those dark eyes impossible to read. I kept running back to Susan for comfort.
Eventually, Emily found out; the neighbours told herdidnt bother hiding it, to be honest. I came home one day and found her at the table, having a cigarette. She said in a quiet, steely whisper,
Get out. Leave this house.
Her eyes were black as coal, surrounded by dark circles.
I went to stay with Susan, waiting for Emily to ring and ask me home. After a week, she messaged mejust said she wanted to talk. I was delighted, cleaned up, splashed on my best cologne. I stepped through the door and she announced,
Were filing for divorce tomorrow.
After that, everything passed in a dazecourt, paperwork, signatures. I even gave up my half of the flat; it had belonged to her family anyway.
So what now? I asked, irritated as soon as we left the registry office. You going to live your life as a divorcée then? I nearly added, Whod want you? but held back.
Emily smiled at metruly smiled, for the first time in years, bright and honest.
Im off to London. Ive been offered a serious project there.
Just dont sell the flat, I said for some reason. Where will you come back to?
Im not coming back, she replied calmly, now my ex-wife. You see, Ive loved someone else for some time. Hes a photographer, too, from London. Hes fascinating to talk to. But I always thoughtwell, Im married, I cant be unfaithful, and we didnt have any big reason to divorce. Were just different people, you and I. Do people get divorced just for that? Or do they?
No, they dont, I answered.
Well, we have, Emily laughed. I was furious when I learned about Susan, but then realisedmaybe its for the best. Ill be happy, and so will you. Marry Susan. I hope you both have a good life.
And she left.
Im not marrying her, I called after Emily.
But she didnt hear.
Since then, I havent heard a word from her. Just once a year, a brief message on WhatsApp: Happy birthday! Wishing you health and happiness. Thank you for Daniel.
Looking back now, I see lifes too short for forcing mismatched souls together. Sometimes, being different isnt enough to keep a marriage alive. All you can do is learn to let goand be grateful for the good things you shared along the way.
