Looking back now, I recall my grandmother’s quiet wisdom that afternoon. “Dear,” she’d said, her eyes crinkling knowingly, “as the old saying goes, not every Agnes hails from Canterbury, nor every John possesses the fortitude of a Dover fisherman. Saints are few upon this worldly stage. So, judge not, but look within thine own heart. Were you, I wonder, truly the perfect wife to your John?” Her gaze held mine, as if already seeing the truth.
“Granny, John has left me! For my friend! Where is the justice in that? Am I simply to endure it?” I cried, my outrage bubbling over.
“Endure, perhaps, but do not run raging to his place of work, denouncing him as a philanderer before his foreman. You’ll bring naught but shame upon yourself. We’ve seen it before… Heartsick wives wailing before the union men, tears staining their cheeks. But love answers neither decrees nor prohibitions. It won’t help, child. Find acceptance. Time, my dear, will show true colours.” Her calm was infuriating.
My news of a faithless husband and a treacherous friend seemed not to ruffle her; it was a mere commonplace to her ear.
Hmph. “Acceptance.” Easily uttered. My friend Abigail… what a viper she proved. Buried her own husband, then set her sights on mine. Oh, she shan’t have him!
John *had* often eyed Abigail. I remembered that time, years ago, our whole group attended a wine tasting in Bath. John’s gaze scarcely left Abigail. He watched her like the cat watches the cream-pot, his look embracing and kissing my friend where she stood swathed in her shawl. I dismissed those lingering glances then, thought nothing of them.
Abigail was undeniably beautiful, gentle, warm-hearted. So what? John and I shared sixteen years, we had our son, Thomas. I truly believed my family an oak, unbreakable by any earthly sin.
Abigail and Edward had no children. I know Abigail grieved deeply over it. Edward, he mostly kept silent on the matter. Suffered in his own masculine way, I supposed. Our families were friends. We often picnicked in the Cotswolds, holidayed together at St. Ives. We laughed as best we could. Ah, but all things run their course. Trouble smirked at our threshold.
“Darling, Edward’s been taken by the ambulance! His heart! Goodness, I’d told him constantly…” Abigail wept, distraught. “*Please*, let’s adopt a child! But he only grew more silent, more grim. Now, I know not what to expect. Will he recover?”
“Peace, Abigail. He’ll pull through! You’ll see. Edward is strong,” I comforted her with feeling.
“Oh, Darling! How should I live without him? He is the very light of my home! My comfort, my cheer. What am I alone?” Abigail sobbed.
“Don’t bury him before his time, Abigail. Steel thyself. No wilting now. Best gown, a pretty hat… Summon a smile and onward to him at the hospital! Edward will fall anew and heal the faster for it…”
That time, all ended well. Edward was mended, set back upon his feet. Life resumed its gentle flow.
Soon after, Edward and Abigail adopted a girl of three, named Rose. Their cup of joy seemed full.
“Now,” Edward declared unexpectedly at their celebration feast, “I fear not the reaper’s call.”
“What nonsense?” we exclaimed at his bleak words. “Now you must live, raise your daughter!”
“I mean only that my days weren’t wasted. I warmed one little soul, gave it shelter. My Abigail… I trust her utterly. If… if anything should happen… she has my blessing to remarry.” Edward spoke enigmatically, an ineffable sorrow in his eyes.
“Edward, enough solemnity! Friends, let us toast to family joy!” my John proposed brightly.
And so, Edward’s strange confession faded from mind. For a time…
But Death, like a peddlar lame, halts at every door. Edward did not safeguard himself. A second, fiercer seizure gave no chance. Edward sleeps now, forever.
Abigail remained, with her adopted girl. She mourned her husband decently, then seemed to bloom anew. She was but thirty then. My friend transformed her very image: fair locks gave way to deepest chestnut, darkest blues replaced her gowns, and smiles came oftener. We still gathered for festive meals.
John seemed to live for these meetings with Abigail. Near her, he sparkled with jests, laughed too readily, sought to please the young widow, coddled her daughter constantly.
I dismissed these attentions. Thought he merely offered support to his late friend’s wife. Fool that I was…
Abigail invited us to Rose’s tenth birthday.
We laughed around her table, wished the child health and obedience.
“Daddy, when will you come to stay with us *always*?” The whisper, so near… it was Rose, murmuring to *John*.
John kissed the child’s cheek, whispering back, “Soon, little rabbit, soon…”
I pretended deafness. To disrupt a child’s party? Unthinkable. Rose bore no blame for the harsh games of the grown.
Home again, I broached it gently: “John, are you leaving us?”
“Love, whatever gave you that fancy?” John denied it, nakedly calm, without shame.
“Something of a pet-name enthusiast, aren’t we? Won’t you confuse your ‘rabbits’?” Anxiety crept in.
“Ah… that… Truly, I hardly know,” my husband flushed, faltering.
“I shan’t yield you to anyone! You pitied a widow! Abigail has her stars, we have ours! Think of Thomas! How shall he receive his father’s double life? Thought yourself a benefactor?” Hatred and contempt warred within me then.
…Six months later, John did resolve to go.
Our Thomas ceased to speak to his father. My house echoed with his absence. Once I knew the truth, I’d begun unlearning John. Those six months were both blessing and torment. He was still near, and I hoped against sense he’d forget Abigail. But my grandmother spoke true: “Love knows no prohibitions.”
Abigail bore John a son. I glimpsed them later, in Regent’s Park. Rose held the infant’s hand, while Abigail and John walked behind, admiring their children. They saw me not. Nor should they have. To intrude upon their seamless joy? Pointless.
Returning home, I called for Thomas.
“Son, hold no anger towards your father. Seek peace. Fall not out with him for my sake. Let him have what happiness he finds. Learn this lesson: If ever you think to leave your wife, recall the feeling when your father left us. It may stay your hand from folly,” I urged my grown son.
“Very well, Mother. I will seek peace. Yet I shall not forget his deed,” Thomas promised. “Mum, marry again yourself! Show that pair they shan’t diminish you. Men like you don’t grow on every bush!” he proposed fiercely.
“Son, never act from spite. Judgment finds its own cost. Your father finds joy in his new vows. I see it plainly… But my heart holds John still. I’ll not disturb his Eden, hard though it be for me,” I sighed, resigned.
“You are mistaken. For one’s own joy, for *family*, one must fight!” – Thomas clung to his conviction.
And I? Perhaps I was not the truest wife. I loved my husband as I knew how. After his departure, I strayed not into
Over the years, I watched Edward raise his new family from afar, finding a quiet satisfaction in Daniel’s steadfast presence and the enduring, if solitary, peace I had cautiously built within my own walls.
