“You’ll never give me away,” Tom said, leaning on the garden wall. “Emma, let’s strike a bargain right here. I’ll provide everything you need, and you, in turn, claim nothing. All my children will inherit everything. Deal?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.
“Deal, Tom,” I sighed.
That agreement was forged five years ago.
I’d never wanted to wed. I was perfectly happy on my owngood job, a flat in Manchester, a close friend, a cat. What more could I ask for? Perhaps I was a selfish creature.
Time marched on, and everyone around me collected husbands and babies. My best mate Claire moved with her family to the United States. Whenever I bumped into acquaintances, the inevitable question rang out: “So, are you taken yet or still on the market?” What should I answer? Married already or still waiting?
I met a young man, thought, perhaps it’s time to change my status from old spinster to married lady. I courted Oleg before he even recovered from the shock. He was decenteasygoing, calm, a decent cook. One snag: I didn’t love him, and I couldn’t force it. Oleg tried to please me, I felt it, but the spark never lit.
We lived together three years. Then, out of the blue, Oleg died at thirtyfour, a sudden heart failure. Death doesn’t send a memo. Guilt gnawed at me; I blamed myself for my indifference and swore off marriage forever.
Claire called, bragging about her American life and inviting me to visit. I hopped on a flight to New York, everything there a novelty.
She chattered nonstop about life across the pond. “Emma, today we’re invited to a birthday dinner for my husband’s boss. Will you come? I’ve told him about you. Mark is keen to meet you. I even showed him your photo,” Claire blurted, breathless.
“Are you mad? Why would I go? He’s American. I won’t,” I retorted.
“You’re such a daft girl! Mark’s a great blokedivorced, looking, with two adult sons. Don’t miss this, Emma!” Claire pressed.
“Fine, I’ll think about it,” I sighed, already conceding. Little did I know how grateful I’d be later.
“No doubt! We’ll get him married to you!” Claire exclaimed.
It felt as if everyone had decided my fate. I thought, well, why not? I didn’t want to disappoint my friend.
That evening Claire, her husband, and I arrived at Mark’s flat. A handsome, middleaged gentleman greeted us. I was stunnedhe looked like a TV heartthrob. Mark kissed my hand, ushered me to the table. I was ready to say “I do” on the spot. All evening we exchanged meaningful glances, smiled, and joked.
By the way, Mark spoke decent Russianhis grandmother hailed from Podoliaso we had plenty to chat about.
We swapped numbers, just in case. Life is unpredictable.
After the visit, I flew back, buoyed, daydreaming about Mark, craving love and to be loved. He called often; our conversations stretched three hours, feeling as if we’d known each other forever.
Finally Mark proposed. Without a second thought I sprinted to New York. He met me at the airport with a lavish bouquet of red roses, down on one knee at the terminal. I blushed. Everyone watched the scene unfold. He handed me the flowers and kissed me passionately, then whisked me to a taxi. Onlookers clapped and smiled.
We arrived at Mark’s house. Three days of wild love and reckless passion flew bya flash. We said little; everything was clear.
Later Mark invited his sons and his mother to a gathering. I was shocked. Two married sons ogled their future stepmum, nodding approvingly, as if I’d been missing from the picture. His mother, apparently a hundred years old, sat proudly in a wheelchair. Neither the sons nor the mother spoke a word of Russian.
I thought I’d have to live with this “cheerful” family. Was this my luck? Mark sensed the awkwardness, but the introduction ritual was done, so we sat down for the feast. No need for endless chatter; we could quietly enjoy the foreign dishes.
Thankfully they lived separately. The sons were in another city, and his mother was in a care home, truly ninetythree. When all formalities were sorted and the wedding fuss settled, Mark set a condition: after his death, all his assets would go to his sons; I, as his wife, would receive a respectable funeral. I agreed, all notarised.
The sons didn’t believe me. They constantly meddled, giving us no peace. Mark took me weekly to visit his children in another town, and once a week I had to see his mother at the care home. I endured it like a mouse under a broom.
I didn’t work, I travelled to Europe twice a year, and I loved my husband deeply. The good outweighed the bad.
Four years of ups and downs passed, and suddenly Mark collapsed, seriously ill, bound to his bed. Caring for him, visiting his mother, dealing with his sonsall fell on my shoulders. A year of heavy illness and relentless care made Mark rewrite his will in my favour. I hadn’t slept much, nor dreamed of his decision.
The next morning the sons stood at our doorstep, trembling. An unpleasant confrontation ensued. They, with open hatred, urged their father to reconsider, saying wives can be swapped, but sons are forever. No one is closer than blood.
I sat quietly aside, watching Mark grow weary of their accusations. I begged for calm, speaking in my broken German.
“Don’t worry, lads. I claim nothing but your father’s love. I just want him to get better. I never built castles in the air.”
The sons called their wives, who waited nearby on a bench. Two ladies approached, looked questioningly at their husbands. The men nodded approvingly. Mark asked everyone to leave except me. The relatives drifted out.
“Emma, are you really giving everything up? Why? You’ll be left alone and penniless,” Mark asked.
“For me, you are everything. Nothing else matters. Get well, Tom!” I whispered, holding back tears.
And it was true.
Mark’s spirits lifted; when I told him we’d soon have a baby, he recovered fully.
Our daughter, Daisy, was born. Mark wanted to name her after his mother, who’d turned a hundredsomething. I didn’t object.
Mark adored Daisy. His sons despised the little girl, seeing her as another heir. So I asked Mark to hand over the inheritance to the sons immediately, leaving us only the house. Peace was worth more.
Mark didn’t argue.
