Fell for a Homely Woman, or “Let Them Say What They Will” — “You’re really leaving me for that country bumpkin?” my wife protested. “Please don’t call Galina that. My mind’s made up, Inna. I’m sorry,” I said, hurriedly packing my things. “I hope you come to your senses soon. You know everyone will laugh at you—your colleagues, the neighbours. Who are you running off with—some unwashed simpleton? What on earth will you tell the children? That their respectable dad ran off with a farm girl?” Inna nervously twisted her handkerchief. “The children? Thank goodness, they’re grown. Sveta will want to get married soon, and Valery is on his own path. We can no longer dictate their choices. As for the neighbours, colleagues, strangers—I couldn’t care less what they think. I have my own life. I don’t peek into anyone’s bedrooms, nor do I hold a candle for anyone,” I said, trying my best to gently convince Inna that I was right. It didn’t work. When a marriage breaks up, it’s unbearably painful for both. Inna stared blankly out the kitchen window. I didn’t feel the slightest bit of pity for her. Not a bit. My soul felt empty, hollow. …Inna was my third wife. When I first saw her, my heart fluttered, my soul opened to the possibility of new happiness. She was beautiful, well-groomed, confident. I was no worse than Alain Delon myself and knew I was wildly popular with the ladies. I had my pick. When I was young, I’d fall in love and get married straight away—only to run off once the drudgery of everyday life or the flaws of my wives disappointed me. Only with Inna did I have children. I thought Inna was my final haven, my anchor. Alas… as the saying goes, both melon and spouse reveal their true nature only over time. The love which had once been juicy and sweet shriveled into dried fruit. Out in public, we played the part of an ideal couple—a model family. The neighbours either admired us (or perhaps despised us) for our beautiful, quiet family. Passing by the local gossips at the gate, we’d overhear their whispering and stride on, as if walking a red carpet. But at home, behind closed doors, everything changed. First of all, Inna was no homemaker: the fridge was always bare, laundry piled up, dust gathered in every corner. Yet, there she was—pristine manicure, perfect hair, immaculate makeup. Inna was convinced the world should revolve around her—and not the other way around. My wife simply allowed herself to be loved, considering herself a star of incomprehensible magnitude. The doors to her soul were closed—to me and to the children. My mother lived with us for many years. She kept quiet at first about the chaos, then began to act, quietly teaching the grandchildren, Sveta and Valery, how to cook, clean, and look after themselves. Inna, playing at high society (on what grounds, I’ll never know), always used the children’s full names—Svetlana and Valery—never cooing or cuddling them. The children, in turn, pulled away from Inna and grew close to their affectionate, fair grandmother. Inna forbade me from befriending the neighbours, refusing conversation beyond a curt “hello.” For the first few years, I didn’t notice any of this. I was simply in love, happy to spend each day with my family. Sveta excelled at school, Valery was hopeless. That in itself was a surprise: two children raised the same, such wildly different outcomes. No matter what we tried, we couldn’t “bring Valery up to scratch” in school. He was stubborn and, by the time he finished high school, had developed nothing but contempt for his sister’s diligence. Their fights were frequent and violent. This was the 1990s. After school, Valery got mixed up with a criminal gang and vanished. For three years, we neither saw nor heard from him. We filed a missing persons report, but it was futile. We feared him lost forever, mourned as best we could. My mother, looking pointedly at Inna, used to say, “A horseman fell because his mother sat him crooked on the horse.” At this, Inna would scoff and lock herself in the bathroom, where I’d hear bitter sobbing. We kept a glimmer of hope that our son would return, and one day, he did. He looked a mess—gaunt, scarred. He brought back a wife as broken as he was, hollow-eyed and lost. Nervous and suspicious, Valery barely spoke, glancing warily at us and over his shoulder. Sveta soon left home. She wanted to get married, but in the end, wasn’t asked—so she lived with a strange, unstable man. No children, but she would come home bruised and silent, never complaining. “Sveta darling, leave him, he’s a brute. One day he’ll kill you without even noticing. Remember, love—there’s always a tormentor if you’re willing to suffer,” my elderly mother would plead with her granddaughter, tears in her eyes. “Gran, it’s fine. Timur loves me… The bruises are nothing, just slipped on the stairs,” Sveta would say, a shadow of the star student she’d once been. And then I—forgetting my years—fell in love again. I never thought I’d have it in me: as they say, grey hair in the beard, devil in the ribs. After my work shift at the factory, I dreaded going home—what with the fights with Valery, my cold wife, my mother’s snide remarks on my third failed marriage, wild children, and hapless wife. There was a canteen lady at the factory, Gail—cheerful, kind, generous, always bringing everyone a laugh. I’d eaten there for years and never noticed this rosy-cheeked, plump woman. But she had a laugh like a babbling brook, always with a story to tell or a joke to share—a ray of sunshine. I began noticing and courting her. She was three years my senior, widowed long ago. Raised her son alone; he’d married and left for work abroad. Gail was everything Inna wasn’t: messy hair pulled into a knot, short nails untouched by manicure, lipstick as her only make-up. But she radiated warmth and kindness. She loved people and the world in her own way. Talking to her felt like drinking pure spring water. Her flat always smelled of baking, the fridge full to bursting, ready to feed all her friends and neighbours. I couldn’t help falling in love with such a homely, warm-hearted woman. I became her suitor, with flowers, cinema trips, and coffee dates. Gail didn’t accept me at first: “Nick, I like you too, but you’re married. How will your children react? I don’t want to be a home-wrecker.” I hesitated, as most men do when faced with a big decision—stepping out on very thin ice. Sometimes I’d spend the night at Gail’s. Inna guessed about the affair—the “well-wishers” made reports, full of vivid detail: who the other woman was, where she lived, when I’d started my “sinning.” Our romance quickly became public scandal. Inna staged an hysterical scene, hurled insults at “that unkempt bumpkin,” threatened to kill herself. Six months later, I packed my things and moved in with Gail. Gail was over the moon, barely knowing whether to laugh or cry. She set a clear condition: “In a month, I’ll need to see your divorce papers, Nick. Otherwise, I can’t do this.” I did as she asked. We married soon after. I haven’t regretted a single thing. Sveta and Valery come to visit us. Gail cooks them wonderful meals. It seems Sveta left Timur; Valery cleaned up his act, is looking forward to becoming a father himself. Perhaps he got tired of the rough side of life. Gail helped bring Sveta and Valery back together: “You’re family—your roots are what matters, you should help each other, not wander adrift like lost dandelion seeds.” Now, brother and sister stick together. My mother has passed away. As for Inna… she’s aged, lost her airs, and won’t even greet me. We live on neighbouring streets, but I never visit my old haunts. Maybe people will judge me, but it’s my life. My choices. I have to live them—not for other people’s opinions.