**Diary Entry – The Heart Chose Warmth**
“You’re leaving me for that plain woman?” Marina’s voice trembled with rage and hurt.
“Don’t call her that, Marina. This is my choice—I’m sorry,” I muttered, hurriedly packing my things, avoiding her gaze.
“Mark my words, you’ll regret this. The neighbours, your colleagues—they’ll all gossip! Who did you choose? Some rough-around-the-edges woman from the countryside! What do I tell the children? That their polished, refined father ran off with a village cook?” Marina crumpled her handkerchief in her fist, face flushed.
“The children? They’re grown, Marina. Lizzie’s nearly married, and Edward’s already on his own path. We’re not their keepers. As for neighbours and colleagues—I couldn’t care less what they think. I don’t meddle in their lives, and mine’s none of their business.” I kept my tone gentle but firm, hoping to sway her.
It didn’t work. A family breaking apart—it’s a knife to the heart for both. Marina turned to the window, shoulders shaking. I felt no pity. Just an emptiness inside, like the aftermath of a fire.
—
Marina was my third wife. When I first saw her, my heart raced like a teenager’s. Beautiful, poised, regal. I wasn’t bad myself—I knew women fancied me. I had options, but I fell hard and married recklessly. The honeymoon phase never lasted, and I’d always run. Only Marina gave me children.
I thought she was my anchor, my destined love. But love, like ripe fruit, withered into something dried and tasteless. In public, we played the perfect couple—polished smiles, glossy appearances. The neighbours envied our “happy” home, the old ladies whispered as we passed, heads held high like royalty.
Behind closed doors, everything crumbled. Marina was no homemaker. The fridge stood empty, laundry piled high, dust settled like snow. Yet she was immaculate—manicured nails, perfect hair, flawless makeup. She saw herself as the star around which the world revolved. She didn’t love—she allowed herself to be loved. Her heart was closed to me, to the children.
My mother, Margaret, lived with us. She endured the chaos but eventually stepped in—patiently teaching Lizzie and Edward to cook, clean, take care of themselves. Marina, fancying herself aristocracy, called them only by their full names—Elizabeth, Edward—keeping them at arm’s length. The children clung to their grandmother’s warmth, drifting from their mother.
Marina forbade me from chatting with the neighbours, sneering at their “common” talk. She barely spoke beyond a stiff “good morning.”
In the early years, I was blind. Happy, in love, living each day with joy. Lizzie excelled in school; Edward, the opposite. It baffled me—same home, same upbringing, yet night and day. We did our best for Edward, but he refused to learn. By secondary school, he resented Lizzie for her success. Sometimes I had to pull them apart, fists flying, feeling the family splinter.
—
It was the chaotic ‘90s. After school, Edward ran with a bad crowd and vanished. Three years—no word. We searched, filed reports, mourned. Mum once muttered in Marina’s direction:
“A son strays when his mother leads him wrong.”
Marina would lock herself in the bathroom, muffling her sobs. Hope flickered but died. Then, just like that, Edward returned—gaunt, scarred, hollow-eyed. His wife, just as battered by life, trailed behind. We took them in warily, fearing his temper. Edward watched us with suspicion, silent, restless.
Lizzie left too, living with some rough chap, no wedding. She’d visit with bruises but never speak of them.
“Lizzie, leave him—he’ll kill you one day,” Mum begged, tearful.
“Gran, I’m fine. Just clumsy,” Lizzie would say, no longer the star pupil.
—
Then, foolish at my age, I fell in love again. Never saw it coming. Grey at my temples, yet my heart raced like a schoolboy’s. Going home became unbearable—Edward’s rage, Marina’s frost, Mum’s reproaches. “Three marriages, and still no real family. Children like strays, a wife who can’t keep house.”
At the factory where I worked, there was a cook named Dorothy. Cheerful, plain-spoken, kind-hearted. For years, I barely noticed her—round-faced, rosy-cheeked. But her laughter, like a brook’s chatter, finally broke through. Dot joked, spun funny tales, radiated warmth. I lingered in the canteen, finding excuses to talk.
Dorothy was Marina’s opposite. A simple scarf over her hair, nails unpainted save for bright lipstick. Yet she glowed. Her flat smelled of fresh bread, her fridge always full—roasts, stews, pies. She fed neighbours, friends, shared comfort. With her, I felt alive, like drinking from a clear spring.
I courted her—flowers, films, strolls. Dorothy hesitated.
“Andrew, I like you. But you’ve a wife, children. I won’t be the other woman,” she said.
I wavered. Leaving was stepping onto thin ice. But gossip reached Marina. “Well-wishers” spilled everything—who Dorothy was, where she lived, how long I’d been sneaking off. Marina exploded, calling Dot a “vulgar country bumpkin,” threatening to end it all.
Six months later, I packed my bags. Dorothy welcomed me but set a rule:
“Andrew, show me divorce papers within a month, or I won’t stay.”
I divorced. We married. No regrets. Lizzie and Edward visit. Dot feeds them till they’re stuffed, and slowly, they thaw. Lizzie left her brute. Edward’s healthier, expecting a child—seems done with the dark side. Dot brought them together:
“You’re family. Stick together, not wander like tumbleweeds.”
Now they’re close again. Mum passed, taking her scolds with her. Marina aged, all her arrogance gone. She looks away when we cross paths. We live streets apart, but I don’t walk the old roads.
Some may judge me. But it’s my life, my choices. Mine alone to answer.
—
This all happened in a small Yorkshire town where I chased happiness, only to find it in the warmth of a simple, loving woman.