By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife, intoned the registrar at the London Borough Hall, only to suddenly choke mid-sentence, hacking so violently that everyone froze.
Thats an ill omen, my mother muttered, eyeing the scene with suspicion.
A ripple of unease ran through the gathering; guests whispered nervously. I caught Emily’s frightened glancemy bride, only eighteen, just like me. We were barely adults, swept together by haste. Emily arrived at the altar with a dowryour unplanned baby due in two months. The lacy wedding dress was borrowed for the day; her shoes pinched, loaned from her closest friend, Charlotte. Ironically, years later, Charlotte and I would have a fleeting affair.
For now, we were young and deliriously happy.
Walking hand in hand down a leafy avenue near Hyde Park, I held Emily gently by the waist. Out of nowhere, an older man ambled up and said quietly, Better keep a tight hold on your missus, lador someone might steal her away…
He wandered off, leaving us stupefied, then laughing. We dismissed his foreboding; we were invincible. Who could ever drive us apart? Let them try.
My mate, Tombest man at my weddinggave me grief later, Steve, arent you a bit rash? Look at all the fine girls out there! Couldnt you find someone better?
I waved him off. I suppose theyre all holding out for the likes of you
They were, in fact. Tom went on to marry four times, each time an absolute stunner.
Our daughter, Grace, was bornnot long after I shipped out for military service, far from home. I pined for Emily and Grace. Emily posted me her photograph; I kept it tucked under my pillow, hoping shed visit my dreams.
One evening, returning to the barracks, I found Emilys photo out for all to seedefaced crudely, obscene words scrawled across her face. Rage overcame me; I launched myself at my bunkmate, Harold, beating him within an inch of his life. It landed me a stint in the detention block. I tore up the photo in disgust. Justice was served: Harold faced consequences.
Back from service, hardened and strangely furious at Emily. I convinced myself a young woman must surely have found a lover while I was gone. Emily had changed. When I saw her again, she was transformedfrom a timid mouse to a confident, luminous woman bursting with potent energy.
Is that really you, Emily? I whispered, awed.
Pride surged in me, but suspicion crept in with it. Had Emily really been faithful? Such sweetness always attracts flies. I took on a mistress as insurance, just in case.
Emily heard about my escapades three months later. I barely managed to stop her from filing for divorce. She gave her verdict: Well, Steve, dont expect any sympathy now
Emily burned all my army letters; the keepsakes she once treasured now turned to ash. Our bed was out of bounds indefinitely. I wasnt invited to the dining table any longer; our conversations reduced to mere logistics.
It was miserydays spent regretting, years spent in tears. I dragged Emily and Grace to Bournemouth for a second, impromptu holiday. The wine, sun, seasomehow, we found reconciliation there.
I let my mistress go, and for seven years, Emily and I shared a peaceful suburban lifealmost a haven. But perhaps Emily yearned for something wilder.
At work, I knew a charming bloke, Boris, the office clown. Boris was everyones confidantemen flocked to him for solace about nagging wives, overbearing mothers-in-law, the worlds turmoil. Boris listened and offered advice. I thought, Why not invite Boris to Emilys birthday? Hell cheer everyone up.
If only Id known what was coming.
Boris accepted, bringing his wife along. That evening, Boris outdid himself: jokes flew, laughter rang, his toasts sparkled with wit. Emily basked in the good spiritssmiling brightly, doting on guests, chirping cheerfully as she served cake. The party was a triumph. But within a month, hell broke out for both our families.
One afternoon, Boriss wife called, shaken. Steve, arent you aware? Our spouses are seeing each other. Tell your dear Emily Ill fight for my Borisshe can keep her hands off! We have two little ones.
I was clueless. Was Emily so recklessly bent on vengeance for my betrayals?
Chaos ensued. Boriss wife hounded Emily, threatening suicide for dramatic effect. I locked Emily in our flat, disconnected the phone, threatened divorcenothing brought her back to me. They say you cant hide love, fire, or a cough.
I went for help to Charlotte, Emilys closest friend.
She shot straight: Steve, its love. Emily wont return. Theres no path back for you.
Broken, I ended up staying with Charlotte for six months. She comforted me briefly.
Emily and Boris married. They lived in their own paradise, noticing nothing outside their bubble. It seemed like they breathed with one anothers lungs. I despised them both, cursed their happiness. The agony chewed at meI could howl at the moon. How could my Emily be taken from me? Happiness and sorrow ride the same carriage.
People say time heals. I dont buy it. My wound only crusted over, as fragile as early frost, aching often. Friends searched carefully for my next wife. A beautymarried swiftly, before I could change my mind. Weve been together seventeen years now. I try to act happy, hope against hope. But if anyone peered into the crypts of my battered soul, theyd find Emily dwelling there, forever. If only shed callSometimes, I pass beneath a canopy of chestnut trees on my way homeleaves whispering overheadand catch a sudden scent of lavender, Emilys favorite. For one impossible instant, I think shell be there, smiling at me shyly, as she did on that leafy avenue years ago.
But there is only the empty street, and my footsteps echo softly.
I look at Grace, now grown, radiant like her mother. She brings me photos of her own baby, and laughter fills my house again. If love is destiny, so too are loss and longingmarked indelibly, like wedding rings carved into flesh rather than gold.
The years have taught me this: the heart never forgets, never stops aching in those quiet hours when memory blurs the borders between regret and gratitude. Emily, Boris, Charlotte, Tomghosts of youth, fleeting, but their shadows linger in every sunrise.
So I go on. Living. Hoping. Carrying the weight of what was and what could have been. And sometimes, in dreams, I walk again beside Emily down the avenueher hand warm in mine, laughter floating behind us, the world washed alive with promise, just for a moment.
Just for a moment, I am eighteen and deliriously happy, and nothing can steal her away.
