LUCKY OR JUST A FOOL?
Irene, a quiet and unassuming girl, was always called the “lucky fool” by her friends. How could such things go together? You’ll soon understand.
No sooner had she turned twenty than a friend invited her on holiday to Brighton. Sea, sunshine, free lodging—they were staying with the friend’s relatives. There, Irene met Alexander—a handsome lieutenant colonel renting a place nearby. A man with a military past, having served in Afghanistan, he now held a position in the recruitment office. There was strength, resolve, and certainty in him. And also—pain. Irene saw it when she noticed an old, jagged scar on his back. Foolishly, she asked,
“From over there?”
Alexander only shrugged and dove under the waves. He didn’t like to speak of it.
Irene fell for him headlong. She gave herself to him the moment he wished. In return, he smirked and said,
“Well, suppose we’ll have to marry now.”
It didn’t trouble her that no words of love were spoken. To her, this was real happiness.
Alexander was seventeen years her senior and took charge of everything: a wedding without gowns or limousines, just a quick registry office visit in his town. As if to say they were too old for such frivolities. And besides—he’d done it all before. He was a widower with an eight-year-old daughter.
For Irene, it was a blow, but she decided love mattered more. So she stayed. The girl, Lily, had been passed around, unwanted, shuffled between grandmothers. At first, Irene merely pitied her, but then, hearing the cry from the street—
“Mum!”—she nearly wept. And she adopted Lily.
Irene had only ever trained as a hairdresser. She wanted to study—Alexander cut her short.
“Find a salon and go on maternity leave. I want a son.”
But pregnancy never came. Or perhaps the fault lay elsewhere.
Then disaster struck: one of his subordinates was caught taking bribes, and though Alexander was blameless, in the military chain of command, the man at the top always bore the blame. He was forced to resign “for health reasons.” The pension was decent, but it broke him. He shut himself away, stopped bringing money home, spent days with friends and bottles. Within a year or two, Irene realised her husband had become a shadow of himself. He didn’t work, didn’t help, didn’t even buy food—just ate from the fridge what suited him.
When summer came, Irene took Lily to Brighton. Two weeks made it clear: she had to leave.
“You’re my mum,” Lily told her.
Irene nodded.
Alexander lashed out.
“I’ll make you take Lily!”
When he learned her mind was made up, he spat,
“You’re a fool, Irene.”
She returned to her hometown, to her parents. Of course, they’d have preferred blood grandchildren, but they accepted Lily. The girl started school; Irene went back to cutting hair. One day, a greying man came in—gentle, polite. He left a tip, and that evening, a bouquet. His name was Andrew. Ten years older, divorced, living in his own house, with a small but steady construction business.
With him, it was easy. He said he loved her. Irene thought—how much longer must she chase happiness? Here it was. They married. Friends whispered in envy,
“If only you hadn’t taken your ex’s daughter, you wouldn’t be such a fool.”
Irene felt a pang—God had never given her children of her own. But life had another turn in store. Andrew had a younger sister—troubled. She’d had two girls, lived recklessly, drank. Now she was losing her rights as a mother. Social services were already circling.
Andrew hesitated.
“It’s not really your concern…”
At that moment, Irene imagined the girls in a boat, everyone pushing them away. Their mother, their fathers, even their uncle. And what—would she do the same?
“We’ll take them,” she said firmly. “You know Lily isn’t mine by blood. And look at her now—off to college.”
Her husband held her tight, and they sat like that a long while, silent. Two people who no longer needed words.
So, was Irene lucky? Without a doubt! Her first husband—an officer, a handsome man. There’d been the thrill of love, the experience. They’d parted, yes, but without children. The second try—success: a kind husband, a home, stability. No wonder colleagues envied her.
But was she a fool? Adopting a girl, taking in her husband’s nieces. She knew it meant endless care, expenses, tears, sleepless nights. But she didn’t back down. Because her heart never chose the easy path.
…Falling asleep against her husband’s shoulder, Irene thought of braiding the girls’ hair, picking out dresses, reading bedtime stories. Their home would be full of laughter, the smell of baking, birthday balloons, swings in the park. Lily was grown now—more a friend than a daughter. But these little ones would stay close for years to come. And that—that was happiness. Irene wasn’t afraid of it. And so—not a fool. But truly, a lucky woman.
