EVERYONE STUMBLES, NOT EVERYONE STANDS STRAIGHT
“Charlotte, where will you find a man like that? Youll always have time to divorce. A married woman always has an advantage. All the responsibility falls on the husband, while a man on the side has his hands freeno obligations, just enjoying the company of his foolish mistress. But if you end up alone, no one will spare you a second glance. Especially with little Oliver growing up. He needs his real father, not some strangers uncle. Theres no logic in what youre doing,” I said, genuinely trying to talk sense into my childhood friend.
Yet I knew I was speaking to the wind. Charlotte had already made up her mind.
Life often forces us to choose. There are always two pathsthe right one, and any other. But who can tell which doors to open and which to shut? Sometimes, even the soundest advice falls on deaf ears. We learn from our own mistakes. The wisdom of generations means nothing. Later, we weep, gnash our teeth, and sink into despair.
I have two friends: Charlotte and Emily. Weve known each other since childhood. Charlotte was the girl next door, Emily my schoolmate. We know everything about each other, as only close friends can.
Were all so different, so I keep my friendships with Charlotte and Emily separate. Once, I tried to bring them together, but alas… My friends are like two opposite poles.
“How can you stand that overdressed doll? What could you possibly talk about? Nothing but clothes and married men,” Charlotte hissed after meeting Emily.
“Your friends neckline plunges past her navel. A proper tart, if you ask me. Her eyes are always hunting for a man with a fat wallet. That smile of hers is fakeall for show. And that botched plastic surgery is painfully obvious,” Charlotte scoffed, scrutinizing Emily.
Their first meeting was their last. The evening was ruined. I never tried again to make them friends.
Over the years, weve had it allarguments, misunderstandings, reconciliations, months of frosty silence. You name it.
Now were all in our forties. Charlotte has a son, Emily a daughter.
Charlotte divorced her husband, William, long ago. It all started so romantically.
They met in a café. William was married then, with a daughter of his own. Charlotte, of course, was striking and unconventionalmen turned their heads when she passed. She had an unforgettable presence. Shed graduated from art school, sewed her own bold outfits, and dreamed of her own business, a solid marriage, a loving husband.
And for a while, she had it all. Then it vanished like snow in the sunand she was the one who melted it away. Charlotte never waited for green lights; she preferred to dash through the amber.
William, smitten, left his wife without a second thought. They had a lavish wedding. Then came the grind of daily life. William adored her. He was eighteen years older, treating her like a beloved daughter. He called her “Mouse.” *Mouse, fancy Paris? Done. A new car? No problem. The latest sewing machine? Yours. Lip fillers? On me!*
Every whim was granted, as if by magic. Of course, William wasnt a saint (saints dont walk this earth). He had his complaintswhy was dinner never ready, the flat a mess, his shirts unironed? Charlotte would silence him with a deep kiss. Hed fry his own eggs, vacuum, heat the iron…
She was his third wife. Maybe thats why he feared losing her, forgiving every domestic shortcoming.
Charlotte had Oliver. William worshipped the boy. But Charlotte never quite warmed to motherhood. She slipped away more often, leaving Oliver with William or his mother. With her looks, temptation was never far. As her closest friend, I knew of her affairs. William suspected but stayed silent. *Shes young, maybe she needs more love,* he told himself.
After eight years, the marriage crumbled. The infamous “seven-year itch” came late, but it came. Not all couples survive it.
By then, Charlotte had her own thriving business. She stood on her own two feet and decided she didnt need William anymore. She left, taking Oliver, rented a flat, and started anew. She told me:
“I hate William. Hes useless in bed. I hope some woman snaps him up so hell leave me and Oliver alone.”
Well, as they say, a woman always gets her way.
Oliver became the battleground. He loved both parents equally. But Charlotte was always working, while Williams home was calm, with a doting grandmother. Oliver chose his father.
Charlotte knew she was torn between her son and her work, but she wouldnt change a thing. William called endlessly, begged her to return, used Oliver as leverage. She was unmoved:
“The bridge is burned. Full stop, no commas.”
Charlotte was young, beautiful, and nearly free. Then came a mana workplace fling. Married, two children. It didnt faze her:
“His wife should keep a tighter leash. Ill borrow him, then give him back. No harm done.”
They jetted off to Spain, to Italy… It was all whirlwind romance.
True to her word, she “borrowed” him for six months, then returned him. William still called, still pleaded. It wore on her. Then she met Jamesher age, unmarried. Love bloomed. He moved in.
At first, it was fine. Then James started drinking. Work was shaky.
“Liz, I think Ive taken in a drunken freeloader,” she admitted.
“Kick him out, Charlotte! Hes latched onto you like a tick,” I urged.
Then a schoolmate called:
“Charlotte, would you mind if I married William? He makes me so happy!”
“May you walk the same road forever!” Charlotte replied coolly.
And so, she was alone. Oliver, now nineteen, refused to speak to her. She called, but he always hung up. Once, he answered:
“Dads new wife raised me. Stick to your business, Mum. Stop calling.”
Meanwhile, Emily had the sense to weather her own storm.
She met Edward at the seaside. He was there with friends, though he had a wife. Ive never understood spouses who let each other wander into temptation alone. Why invite disaster?
Anyway, Emily announced her wedding. The holiday fling became a grand affaircelebrated in two cities, since Edward was from out of town. She moved in with him. We saw less of each other, but we talked often, so I knew every twist in her tale.
Edward adored her. She was his sun. He built them a fine house, bought two cars. They had a daughter, Sophie. He anticipated her every whimdesigner clothes, luxury cosmetics.
Emily earned another degree, but she never worked. Edward provided everything. Her life was beauty and leisure. She visited her hometown now and then, missing it at first. But time passed. She made new friends, grew to love her new life.
Then, after seven years, she wanted a divorce. *The love is dead,* she said. Her parents, Edwards mother, Edward himselfall baffled. Emily stayed with her parents for months, refusing to return. She even planned to move back permanently.
“Liz, you wont believe itIm bored stiff with Edward! My hearts ice. His jealousy suffocates me. Those bouquets of roses? They just prick me.”
“Spare me. Youre spoiled rotten. Roses irritate you, do they? Watch outsomeone else will snatch him up before you blink.”
Emily was stunning, always immaculate. It was a pleasure just to look at her, to inhale her French perfume. Naturally, Edward was wildly jealous. He tried everything to win her back. But she was set on ending it.
The crisis dragged on for two years. Then, thaw. They reunited. Edward worked harder than ever to keep her in luxury. The Maldives, Venice, Italyshe saw them all with him and Sophie.
Once, she confessed to me:
“I almost lost the most precious man…”
