My True Wife – The Secret to Staying Together for Decades: My Brother’s Question, A Marriage Tested by Betrayal, Broken Porcelain Statues, and a Long-Awaited Act of Forgiveness That Spanned a Lifetime

Author Wanda MirandaReading 8 minViews 1

MY TRUE WIFE

How on earth have you managed to stay married to the same woman for all these years? Whats your secret? My brother would always ask me this when he came over.

Love and immense patience. Thats the whole secret, Id reply, always the same.

Thats not for me, he would scoff. I love all women. Each one is a new mystery. Why spend your life rereading the same book? hed smirk.

My younger brother, Peter, married when he was just eighteen. His bride, Alice, was ten years older. Sweet Alice fell completely head over heels for Peter, loving him with all her heart. Peter, however, only toyed with her affection.

Alice made their home in Peters house, which he shared with seven other family members, and soon she gave birth to a little boy, Matthew. Alice decided shed caught her lucky break. The young couple were given a tiny room of their own.

Alice treasured her collection of porcelain figurines. She adored those ten rare pieces, placing them carefully atop an old chest of drawers, where the family knew full-well how precious they were to her. Shed often stop to admire them, studying every intricate detail.

At the time, I was hoping to start a family myself, keenly considering each potential partner. I dreamed of finding the one Id spend my whole life with. I can say, jumping ahead, that my wish came true; Ive been married to my wife for over fifty years now.

Peter and Alice lasted ten years together. But Alice had precious little to boast about from their marriage. She did everything she could to be a good wife, pouring her love into her husband and son. She was gentle and agreeable, always mild-mannered and patient. Still, something in Peter was left unsatisfied.

Once, Peter came home a bit the worse for drink. Something about Aliceher manner, her lookannoyed him. He started picking at her, making foolish jokes, grabbing her arm. Sensing the storm coming, Alice quietly slipped out of the room with Matthew in tow and went into the garden. Suddenly, a tremendous crash rang out from inside.

She knew straight offthe sound of breaking porcelain. Alice rushed back and what she saw made her heart sink. Her cherished collection was scattered in pieces on the floor. Only one figurine, by some miracle, survived. Alice scooped it up gently, kissed it, and said nothing to her brute of a husband. But her eyes filled with tears.

A crack split their marriage from that moment on. Alice, as far as I could tell, seemed to drift away from him in spirit. She still did everything expected of a wife and mother, but now it was all a joyless duty.

Peter started drinking more often. Soon coarse, unsavoury women appeared in his circle, followed by just as sketchy friends. Alice sensed something was wrong, but she closed in on herself and grew distant, almost otherworldly. Peter spent less and less time at home, practically abandoning his family. Watching all this, Alice realised it was useless trying to catch the wind in a field. Eventually, the two quietly divorcedno shouting, no insults, no one to blame. Alice took Matthew and moved back to her hometown. The one porcelain figurine left behind stood lonely on the chest of drawers, a memory of her.

Peter didnt waste time grieving. His life turned wild and reckless, free from rules or commitments. He fell easily and deeply in love, then just as swiftly moved on. Things spiralled down fast. He remarried and divorced three times. Hed drink himself into oblivion. Strangely, despite his failings, Peter thrived at the institute, gaining a reputation as a talented economist. Hed written a well-received textbook, travelled across England as a sought-after consultant, and was tipped for great prospects. The drinking and chaos undid it all in the end.

Our family thought, at one point, that Peter had finally settled down. We all breathed a sigh of relief. He decided to marry an astonishing woman. We were invited to a quiet wedding. The bride had a seventeen-year-old son, and it only took a glance for everyone to see that Peter and the boy would never get along.

They were too different, almost strangers under the same roof. Peter ignored the obvious, blind to the challenge he was taking on by marrying a woman with baggage. In fact, the stepson became the undoing of that marriage five years latermore than once, Peter and the lad almost came to blows, and some disaster felt close at hand. They never saw eye to eye.

Afterwards, Peter drifted between womenLinda, Margaret, Sophie… He loved them all passionately, began planning a life with each of them, but it was always short-lived.

Then life had other plansat fifty-three, Peter was diagnosed with a terminal illness. By then, none of the women remained. Theyd all slipped away, every last one. Only my sisters and I tended to Peter in his bed.

Sam, he rasped one evening, theres a suitcase under my bed. Hand it to me, will you? Even speaking and moving was an effort.

I knelt down, dragged out the dusty old case, and opened it. My breath caught. It was full of porcelain figurines, each one wrapped carefully in cloth to protect them.

These are for Alice. I never could forget her silent reproach that day when she saw her collection smashed to smithereens. She put up with a lot from me, that woman, he whispered. Remember those work trips all over the country? Id buy these ornaments wherever I found them. Theres a false bottomtake the cash. Thats all my savings. Give them to my true wife. Ask her to forgive me, will you? Ill not see her again, Sam. Swear youll deliver them.

Ill do it, Pete, I choked out, realising we were nearing the end.

Her address is on an envelope under my pillow, he added, turning to face the wall.

Alice still lived in her small hometown. Matthew was unwell, some strange illness the doctors couldnt pin down. They told her perhaps treatment abroad might help. That was how I learned, from a letter Alice had sent Petershed kept in touch, though only by writing; Peter never replied himself.

After Peter’s funeral, I prepared for the journey. I needed to fulfil my brothers last request.

I met Alice at a tiny countryside rail station. She was so glad to see me, she pulled me into a hug.

Oh, Sam, youre the spitting image of Peter! she exclaimed.

I handed her the suitcase and offered a heartfelt apology as Peter had asked.

Alice, forgive my wayward brother. This is for youits money and something else from Peter. Look inside when youre home. Just knowyou were the one he truly called wife. Never forget that.

It was the last time I ever saw Alice.

Later, I received her only letter.

Sam, thank you to you and Peter for everything. I thank God Peter was in my life. Matthew and I managed to sell the figurines to a real collector. I just couldnt bear to look at those ornamentstheyd all passed through Peters hands. Such a shame he left us so soon. With the money, we moved to Canada; my sister had been inviting me for years. There was nothing left for me back home. Still, I hoped Peter would call for me. He never did but Im grateful he saw me as his true wife. That means he never grew completely cold to me. By the way, Matthew likes it here, and hes feeling much better. Goodbye.

She left no return address…

Reflecting on all this, I realised a simple truth: love can sustain you for a lifetime, but it demands not only patience, but also kindness. If you break something preciousbe it a porcelain ornament or a persons heartsometimes theres just no mending it.

“It Doesn’t Look Good That Your Children Will Have Homes While My Son Won’t—Let’s Buy Him a Flat With a Mortgage!” Recently, my husband Anthony pointed out that my children have homes, but his son doesn’t—so we need to figure out how to get his son a flat, too. For context: my children are our children together, while Anthony’s son is from his first marriage. Why should it be my responsibility to worry about getting a home for his son? Of course, I’ve always known Anthony was previously married and had a child, which is partly why I wasn’t in any rush to marry him. We lived together for three years before tying the knot. I watched carefully how he felt about his ex-wife and his child. A year after marrying, we had our own son. Two years later, our second son. I’m happy with Anthony as a husband and as a father—he’s devoted time to me and our children and is a good earner. Naturally, we have the odd spat, but what family doesn’t? We lived in the flat I inherited from my father after my mother divorced him when I was little. Mum remarried but had no more children. Anthony and his ex-wife always rented, saving for a mortgage that never materialised. After their divorce, Anthony continued renting on his own, while his ex-wife moved back with her parents. When we married, Anthony moved in with me. We never focused on whose name was on the flat—we just did home improvements and shared everything. But about a year and a half ago, both my grandmothers passed away and left me their flats as well. While my boys are still young, I decided to rent those flats out. Later, each son will get a flat. Rental from one goes to help mum’s pension, the other supplements my salary. Anthony never interfered with my flats—they’re nothing to do with him. From the start, I told him clearly: one day, each of our sons gets a flat. He agreed, and that was that. Suddenly, Anthony comes out with: “My son finishes secondary school soon. He needs to start thinking about his future!” At first I didn’t know where he was going with this, but I listened. “Your kids have homes! My son doesn’t! Let’s buy my boy a flat with a mortgage!” Anthony blurted out. I was stunned! So many questions. Firstly—since when are our children only mine? Anthony asked me not to nitpick his words. “But my son will never inherit anything. I want him to have his own home!” “It’s great you care! But he has two parents—shouldn’t both be responsible for that? Why isn’t your ex-wife handling this?” Anthony tried explaining—his ex earns little and relies on her parents, and he simply can’t afford a mortgage alone. But if I help, we can manage it. He wants us to agree to a mortgage for his son, with the flat in his son’s name, and us footing the bill. “We both have good salaries, plus rental income—it’ll work!” Anthony insisted. We could just about manage, but we’d have to tighten our belts—a lot. Anthony pays child support, and when his son goes to university, he’ll help even more, since his ex can’t support him. So because of his son, our family will miss out: no nice holidays, no trips to the seaside—we’ll be scrimping on everything. All so Anthony looks like a great dad? I could understand if Anthony was the one who had provided flats for our kids and now wanted to do the same for his eldest. But that’s not the case—I provided those homes. Anthony has nothing to do with them. Why should I pay for his son’s mortgage? I told Anthony straight—if he’s so worried, let his ex take out the mortgage, and she can pay it with child support. “But I won’t be getting involved!” I said. Now Anthony’s furious with me and hasn’t spoken to me in a week. It’s such a shame he can’t see my point.

Changed His Mind About the Wedding Archie spent long evenings in his laboratory, endlessly pouring mysterious liquids from one test tube to another and analyzing powders, steadfast in his belief that his diligent work would soon yield a breakthrough—a unique product extracted from the roots of a rare plant. At forty, the enthusiastic scientist was so absorbed in his research that he hardly noticed the admiring glances of young Sophie, the new cleaner at the institute. Driven by dreams of scientific fame, Archie was oblivious to the quiet hours Sophie spent leaning on her mop, watching him from the doorway. But one evening, Sophie plucked up her courage: “Mr. Archie Glen, you’ve been glued to that chair since morning. Fancy a cup of tea? I happened to bring my kettle—and some homemade sausages my mum sent from the village.” At the mention of sausages, Archie paused, intrigued. As Sophie fetched her container, Archie, the ever-thorough scientist, asked: “How long’s the food been in your rucksack today?” Flustered, Sophie replied, “Since this morning, but the changing room’s chilly—heating’s not even on yet!” Archie hesitated, worrying about food safety and microbial growth, yet the aroma eventually got the better of him. He found the sausage irresistible, and even complimented Sophie, who beamed with pride. Their unlikely friendship blossomed into an awkward romance. Archie, who had never paid women much mind in his forty years, now found himself distracted from his formulas and even plagued by scandalously vivid dreams about Sophie. Before visiting Sophie’s family, Archie made every effort: dressing up smartly, dabbing cologne, and letting Sophie tweeze out his grey hairs while he nervously anticipated meeting her mother. But from the moment they arrived at Sophie’s ramshackle countryside home, disaster struck. Her mother was hostile, appalled at Archie’s age, and deeply suspicious, while Sophie’s handsome young stepfather did nothing to ease the tension. Accusations flew, arguments erupted, and poor Archie fled the house as a chair whizzed by his ear—only to get lost in the snowdrifts and suffer a blood pressure spike. After a hectic scene involving a village paramedic, Archie realized he had landed in a world as unpredictable as it was uncomfortable. When Sophie tried to patch things up, Archie discovered his enthusiasm for rustic romance had well and truly vanished. Back in London, Archie was coldly polite, settling back into old habits—counting up food expenses, paying Sophie as a housekeeper, and sending her home after work with firm words and barely a glance. Whatever ideas he’d had about marriage had been thoroughly extinguished. He wasn’t getting married after all.

Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “For ages now, the care home has been crying out for you! Get out of our family!” I screamed in a cracking voice. The object of my utter indignation was my cousin, James. God, I adored him as a child! Golden hair, cornflower-blue eyes, a cheerful spirit—that was James all over. …Relatives often gathered at our holiday table. Out of all my cousins, I singled out James. He could charm with his words and was a talented artist, too. Some evenings, he’d sketch five or six pictures in no time at all. I’d stare and melt, unable to tear myself away from the beauty. Quietly, I’d tuck his drawings away in my desk, treasuring my cousin’s art. James was two years older than me. When he turned 14, his mother died suddenly—she just didn’t wake up… The question arose—where would James go now? They rushed first to his biological father. Finding him wasn’t easy: James’s parents had long been divorced, and his dad had a new family—no intention of disrupting their peaceful life. The rest of the relatives just shrugged—they had their own cares and families. Turns out, family is everywhere during the day, but once the sun sets, you can’t find a trace. So, my parents, already with two children, became James’s guardians. After all, his late mother was my dad’s younger sister. At first, I was excited James would be living with us. But… On his very first day, something about his behavior made me uneasy. Mum, trying to comfort the orphan, asked, “Is there anything you’d like, James? Please, don’t be shy.” James answered right away, “A model train set.” Let me note: that toy was expensive. I was shocked—your mum’s gone, and all you want is a train set? My parents bought him his dream, and after that, it snowballed—”Buy me a cassette player, jeans, a branded jacket…” This was the Eighties. Not only was it expensive, but those things were hard to find. My parents, making sacrifices for their own kids, fulfilled the orphan’s every wish. And my brother and I understood—never complained. …When James turned 16, the girls started appearing. My cousin proved very amorous. More disturbing—he started pursuing me, his own cousin. But as an athlete, I dodged all his inappropriate advances. We even ended up fighting. I’d cry buckets. My parents never knew—I didn’t want to upset them. Children usually keep quiet about such things. After I pushed back, James quickly shifted his attention to my friends. They, by the way, competed for his affection. …James also stole—blatantly and shamelessly. I had a piggy bank, where I’d save for gifts for Mum and Dad. One day—it was empty. James denied it outright—never blinked or blushed. My soul was torn apart! How could he? Living in the same house and stealing? He vandalized our family’s bonds. I sulked, but James honestly didn’t see the problem. He thought everyone owed him. I came to hate him. That’s when I shouted at the top of my voice: “Get out of our family!” I lashed him with my words—said so much, you couldn’t collect it all. Mum barely managed to calm me. From that moment, James ceased to exist to me. I ignored him completely. Later, I learned the other relatives already knew what “piece of work” James was—they all lived nearby and had seen plenty. Our family lived in a different part of town. James’s former teachers had warned my parents: “Taking him in, you’re bringing trouble on yourselves—he’ll lead your own kids astray.” …At his new school, James met Kate, who would love him all her life. They married right out of school and had a daughter. Kate patiently endured his outbursts, endless lies, and countless affairs. As they say, misery loves company, and marriage only doubled her woes. James took full advantage of Kate’s unwavering love. …James was drafted into the army, serving in Yorkshire. There, he started another family—somehow, he managed it during leave. After his service, he stayed in Yorkshire, where he’d fathered a son. But Kate, without hesitation, traveled to Yorkshire and by hook or by crook brought him back home. My parents never heard a word of gratitude from James, though that’s not why they took him in. …Now James Edward is sixty. He’s a regular at the local Anglican church. He and Kate have five grandchildren. It all seems fine, but the bitterness from our relationship with James remains to this day… And I wouldn’t eat honey with him for the world.

My Husband Meant More to Me Than Any Bitter Grievance “Igor, that was the last straw! That’s it, we’re getting divorced! Don’t bother dropping to your knees like you always do—it won’t work this time!” With those words, I drew a firm line under our marriage. Of course, Igor didn’t believe me. He was convinced it would all follow the usual script: he’d kneel, apologise, buy me another ring, and I’d forgive him, just like always. But this time, I was truly determined to break the chains of our matrimony. My fingers, right down to the pinkies, glittered with rings—yet I had no life. Igor drank himself into a stupor, day after day. And yet, it all started so romantically. My first husband, Eddie, went missing back in the 1990s—those were frightening times to be alive. Eddie was never easy to live with, always rushing headfirst into every scuffle as if he were invincible. Just as they say: eagle’s eyes, mosquito’s wings. If anything rubbed him the wrong way, he’d kick off a right dance—always trouble. I’m convinced today that Eddie got killed in some dodgy row; there was never a word from him again. I was left alone with two little girls—Lizzie, five, and Rosie, only two. Another five years went by after his mysterious disappearance. I thought I’d lose my mind. I truly loved Eddie, despite his explosive temper. We were as thick as thieves, two halves of one whole. I resigned myself: life was over, I’d just raise my girls alone. Gave up on myself. But then… It wasn’t easy in those turbulent times. I worked at a factory and got my pay in… irons, which I’d have to flog at the market for money to buy food. That was my weekend routine. One winter, numb with cold while selling irons, a man approached. He was concerned for me. “Cold out, miss?” he asked gently. “How could you tell?” I tried to joke, but my teeth chattered. Still, his presence brought a feeling of warmth. “Right, silly question. Maybe we can warm up in a café? I’ll help with those irons you didn’t sell.” “Well, lead the way, or I’ll die of frost here,” I croaked out. We never made it to a café. I led him close to home, asked him to watch the bag of irons while I dashed to fetch the kids from nursery. By then, my legs were stone-cold, but my heart felt warm again. Returning with the girls, I saw Igor (that’s how he introduced himself) waiting outside, shifting from foot to foot, smoking. I thought, “I’ll offer him tea, and then—who knows what’s next!” Igor helped me lug the bag to my sixth-floor flat (of course, the lift didn’t work). While I got the girls up to the third floor, he was already coming back down to leave. “Wait, my hero! You’re not leaving before you have some hot tea!” I caught his coat sleeve with my icy fingers. “Well, I don’t know—am I intruding?” Igor eyed the kids. “Don’t be silly! Take the girls’ hands, I’ll dash ahead and put the kettle on,” I said with no hesitation. I didn’t want to let this man slip away—he already felt familiar somehow. Over tea, Igor offered me a job as his assistant, with a better wage than years at the factory could bring. Naturally, I nodded my obedience, itching to thank him a hundred times over… Igor was on his second divorce, with a son by his first marriage. And so it began. Soon after, we married—Igor adopted my girls. It was as if we danced through life. We bought a four-bedroom flat, filled it with sharp furniture and gadgets. We built a lovely cottage. Every year, we holidayed by the sea. Life was a bowl of cherries… Seven years of cloudless happiness passed. Then, as if reaching the summit of bliss, Igor started hitting the bottle hard. At first, I didn’t react—it’s stressful work, I thought, everyone needs to unwind. But when Igor started drinking at work, I grew uneasy. Persuasion didn’t help. I should mention—there’s an adventurer in me. To distract him from his drinking, I decided… to give him a child. By then, I was nearly thirty-nine. My friends were shocked—but supportive. “Go on, Tanya! Maybe we’ll decide to be young mums at forty too!” they laughed. I always say, “If you end a pregnancy, you might regret it bitterly later, but if you have the baby—even if it was unplanned—you’ll never be sorry.” Igor and I had twins. So now, we were raising four girls in total! Igor’s drinking didn’t stop. I put up with it for a time, but then I craved country living—a farm, some animals, fresh air for the kids. And maybe, with work to do, Igor wouldn’t have time for drink. We sold our flat and our cottage. We bought a house in a small English town and opened a lovely café. Igor took up shooting—bought a shotgun and hunting kit. Lots of game in the woods. Things rolled on, more or less fine, until Igor got drunk one night. I don’t know what poison he drank, but he went wild—smashed everything, even pulled his rifle and fired into the ceiling! The children and I ran to the neighbours, terrified. The next morning, all was still. We tiptoed home to carnage—everything broken, nothing to sit, eat, or sleep on. Igor lay on the floor in a drunken stupor. I gathered what little was left and, with the children filed out to Mum’s, who lived nearby. “Tanya, what am I supposed to do with this gaggle of girls? Go back to your husband—families go through things, it’ll all come out in the wash!” Mum said. She always believed “grin and bear it, at least your man’s handsome.” A few days later, Igor showed up. That’s when I finally drew the line. For what it’s worth, he didn’t even remember his wild rampage. He didn’t believe a word of it. But I was beyond caring. I broke all ties—burned all bridges. What to do next, I didn’t know. But I decided: better to starve and live than be killed by a drunken husband. We sold the café for peanuts, just to get away, and settled in a tiny house in a nearby village. The older girls eventually married. The twins were in year five at school. All the girls loved their “Daddy Igor” and kept in touch. Through them, I heard Igor was begging for me to come back. The girls pleaded too: “Mum, stop being so stubborn. Dad’s changed, he’s apologised a hundred times!” But I wanted a quiet life, free from drama. Two years went by. Loneliness gnawed at me. All the rings Igor gave me were pawned and never bought back. I missed what we had—our house was always full of love, Igor loved all the girls, was never cruel to me, always tried to make amends. We were exemplary, really. What more did I want? Now even the older daughters just called; no time to visit. I understood—they were young and busy. Soon, the twins would fly the nest too, and I’d be left all alone. Girls are like ducklings—they feather up and then they’re gone. So I asked the twins to find out how their dad was getting on—maybe someone else was in the picture? They asked everything. Turned out he lived and worked in another city, hadn’t touched a drop, and was single—no one in his life. He left the girls his address, just in case… Long story short, we’ve been back together for five years now. I did tell you, I’m an adventurer at heart…