“Better a Beloved Wife Than a Dutiful Daughter”
“Lydia, choose: either me or your parents!” This time, my husband was firm and unyielding.
“Edward, you know Id follow you to the ends of the earth. But dont shut out my parents. You called them old yourselfhave some pity.”
“I wont have anything to do with them! You can visit if youre such a dutiful daughter,” Edward said, glaring at me reproachfully.
My first marriage was to a man who had served in Afghanistan. Simon seemed brave and fearlessand he was. A decorated major, a hardened soldier.
Our son, Oliver, was born. My parents adored their son-in-law and grandson.
“Lydia, love, your mother and I can rest easy now. Simons a reliable man. Weve handed you to safe handsdont disappoint us,” my father never missed a chance to remind me what a fine husband I had.
Simon paid Oliver little attention. If Oliver reached for his father, Simon was off fishing, meeting army mates, or simply “not in the mood.” Eventually, Oliver stopped noticing him too.
Then things worsened. Simon fell into dark depressions, and when that happened, it was best to stay away. I withdrew from him. When Oliver was five, Simon, drunk out of his mind, dressed in full uniform and threatened our son with his service revolver. That was the final straw. I realized his mind was brokenthe war had scarred him too deeply. I couldnt risk Olivers safety, or my own. We divorced amicably.
My parents, however, poured scorn on me:
“What kind of wife are you? A man like that is hard to come by! Youll regret this!”
I never did. In fact, I grew more certain of my choice. Simon became just a closed chapter. He spent years searching for a wife before marrying a deaf-mute woman.
My second husband came soon after. For work, I often traveled to villages, drafting contracts. In one, I met a high-ranking officialEdward Pembroke. Handsome, well-built, with an easy smile, he stole my heart at once. We disagreed on some matters that day, so I returned to his office a few times. A pleasant friendship blossomed.
“Lydia, let me take you to dinner. Ill drive you home myself tomorrow,” Edward said gallantly, kissing my hand.
I agreed. Oliver was staying with my parentswhy not enjoy the company of a charming man?
One thing led to another.
Love flared between us, fierce and consuming. Edward was six years younger, divorced, with a seven-year-old daughter.
I knew my parents wouldnt approvetoo young, too carefree, “green behind the ears.” But I didnt care. I loved Edward like no one before. Others opinions meant nothing.
“Mum, Dad, Im remarrying. Edward and I invite you to dinner,” I said, steeling myself.
They gaped.
“Surely youre joking, Lydia? We thought youd reconcile with Simon. You have a child together!”
“Forget Simonhe forgot Oliver long ago. End of discussion. Youll meet Edward tomorrow, and dont mention my ex. It wont go well,” I warned, dreading the encounter.
Edward arrived with gifts and a proposal:
“After the wedding, Id like us all to live together. Youre getting olderLydia and I can care for you. Running errands, calling doctors What do you think?”
My father scratched his head.
“Well suppose youve a point. But where? Your mother and I are in a tiny flat. Lydia has hers, left by her ex,” he shot me a look. “What about you, son? Any property?”
“I dream of a three-story house. Ill build itmove everyone in,” Edward said grandly, as if binding us together with his words.
We had a joyous wedding. Edward treated me to a Mediterranean cruise. We planned to tour Europe, always taking Oliver and his daughter, Charlotte. His ex-wife happily let Charlotte travel with us.
Edward embraced Oliver as his own. But Charlotte and I never warmed to each other. She glared, stayed silent, whispering only to her father.
Three years later, we moved into Edwards grand three-story home, set in his village. Land enough for gardens, orchardsanything we fancied. Hed been the perfect son-in-law, designing the house for my parents comfort: their bedroom and kitchen on the ground floor, Olivers room on the third (“let the lad run”), ours on the second. A summer kitchen, a triple garageall perfect.
Later came Olivers motorcycle at twenty, my anniversary car, my mothers spa retreat, my fathers fishing boat.
Yet my parents and Oliver took it all for granted, blind to Edwards generosity. I heard their snipes, their disdain. Edward ignored it:
“Lydia, I want peace. Let them whisper. My conscience is clear. I provide, I respect them. What more do they want? Their ideal is Simonbut I wont bend backward to please them.”
We drifted apart. My parents never grasped that love flows both waysits not a one-way street.
Time ticked on.
Oliver brought home a girl, announcing:
“This is Vera. Shes moving into my room.”
“Who *is* she? Your fiancée? Wife?” I asked warily.
Oliver just dragged her upstairs.
Well, I thought, hes grown. Let *her* parents worry about her virtuemy boy wont be trapped.
But Vera was no shrinking violet. Soon, she made demands.
“Lydia, were moving to the second floor. Im pregnant. Talk to the old folks?” She sat, legs crossed, smoking, sipping *my* coffee.
She refused formalities:
“Titles are outdated. Were all equals.”
“Vera, mind your tone. While Im mistress here, youll respect Olivers grandparents. Dont like it? The doors open.”
She yelled for Oliver:
“Oliver! Lydias throwing me out*pregnant*!”
Oliver shoved me hard. I fell, cracked my head on the table, and woke in hospital with a concussion. Lying there, I weptmy beloved son had raised a hand to mefor *her*.
(It later turned out there was no pregnancy.)
Edward, furious, called the police. But I refused to press chargesclaimed Id slipped.
The betrayal festered. Yet once home, Oliver knelt:
“Forgive me, Mum! I wasnt myself.”
I kissed his head, believing peace had returned.
That night, Edward said:
“Did you know Vera was in our bed while you were in hospital?”
I stared.
“*What?*”
“I woke to her staring at me. She and Oliver had been out. He was dead drunk. I sent her packing.”
He seemed truthful. But what to do? Tell Oliverhed deny it. Confront Verashed twist it. I waited, trusting time would tell.
My parents now poisoned me against Edward:
“Lydia, hes a philanderer! While youre away, hes with trollops! Dump him!”
Hear something enough, you believe it. Our marriage frayed over trifles until Edward left. A month passedno word.
Then a friend called:
“Lydia! Saw Edward with some woman. You know?”
*Fool!* Leave a man like that alone, and vultures swoop. I won him backturned out it was just Charlotte, still single at twenty-five, focused on her career.
Edward returned, resolved:
“Choose, Lydia: me or your parents. Or well end.”
I pitied my frail parents. Yet mention Edward, and theyd spit venom, never softening toward him.
We moved to a modest three-bed house in the village. It needed work, but no one glared or gossiped. Better a humble life in joy than luxury in strife.
My parents called, cursing:
“Youre no daughter! Abandoning us! Chasing your man like a bitch in heat! Veras shipping us to a nursing home!”
They blamed Edward, but we lived quietly, happily, wed in the village church.
**Lesson:** Love should nurture, not demand sacrifice. A home built on respect outlasts one ruled by duty.
