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Samuel often brought thought-provoking books from the library and shared them with me, enriching my perspective. He played a key role in my intellectual growth. Beneath our studious friendship, there was an unspoken bond—we respected each other deeply and, in our hearts, harbored feelings we never dared express. As our BA exams ended and we faced parting ways for good, Samuel handed me a cassette tape, saying, “Listen to it at home.” That evening, after dinner in my Bath home, I locked my room, slipped the cassette into the player, and listened.
With every word, my heart raced. Samuel had confessed his love, saying, “Emma, I can’t imagine life without you. If you allow, I’ll send my parents to propose.” His words mirrored my own feelings—I’d been consumed by thoughts of him. I recorded my own confession on the cassette and gave it to my cousin Daisy, who lived near Samuel’s family in Bristol. Her brother Henry, Samuel’s friend, often visited their home. When Daisy asked why I needed her to deliver it, I fibbed, “I borrowed it for songs and promised to return it.” She seemed unconvinced but agreed. Unknown to me, Daisy listened to the tape, copied it, and then delivered the original to Samuel.
I was clueless about her betrayal. A week later, Samuel’s mother and sisters came to our home to propose. My parents agreed but stipulated that Samuel must secure a good job or start a business to prove he could provide. He tried tirelessly, but jobs were scarce, and starting a business was daunting with no experience. His father, a modest clerk, lacked the means or know-how to help. For six months, we waited for progress, but his family urged us to drop our conditions, and no deal was reached. During this time, Samuel’s uncle called him to London for an opportunity.
Before leaving, he called me, saying, “I’m going for you, to earn and save for a business back home. If you wait, you’ll find me steadfast.” He left for London, and I felt helpless. As a young woman, I was bound by my parents’ choices. I wanted to wait forever, but they grew impatient and began seeking other suitors. Around this time, my uncle proposed a family arrangement: his daughter Daisy would marry my brother Oliver, and I’d marry Daisy’s brother Henry. My father agreed, saying, “Why look outside the family? Just convince your wife.” My uncle confirmed her approval, noting it would spare hefty dowries. The deal was set—my engagement to Henry and Daisy’s to Oliver.
I was unhappy; my heart belonged to Samuel. But I had no power and accepted the marriage, becoming Henry’s wife in the life chosen for me. Contact with Samuel faded—what was the point of holding on? A woman must live the life she’s given, and rebellion, even for truth, often leads to ruin. I devoted myself to Henry, embracing my role. After marriage, I focused on raising our four children—two sons and two daughters. With a family to nurture, I had no time for past regrets. I never knew when Samuel learned of my marriage. He never returned, settling in London permanently.
Time erased old memories. Honestly, I no longer felt the sting of lost love or questioned my path. My children were my world. Henry wasn’t flawless—nobody is—but he was kind, loved me deeply, and trusted me fully. I never broke that trust. Why wouldn’t I cherish a man who valued me? I never imagined our stable life would face a storm.
Years later, Samuel returned after my marriage. His mother had fractured a bone falling in her bathroom, and I visited her out of courtesy in Bristol. I’d never been to their home and didn’t expect to see Samuel. Our eyes locked, memories flooding back. He said he’d visit Henry, his childhood friend. The next day, a Sunday, he came to our home. I led him to the drawing room. When Henry emerged, I said, “Your neighbor’s here.” He thought I meant someone else, saying, “Didn’t I see him yesterday?” I clarified, “No, Samuel from London.” Henry was thrilled, saying, “It’s been ages! Send tea.”
As I brought the tea tray, my hands shook, and a cup spilled on the carpet. Mortified, I retreated silently. That day, shame overwhelmed me—what must Henry think of my clumsiness? I felt restless, uneasy. Henry noticed, asking, “Emma, what’s wrong? You’re so quiet.” I brushed it off: “Just under the weather.” I visited Samuel’s mother a few more times. Once, Henry came home unexpectedly, sending our maid to fetch me for urgent documents. I held the keys to our safe, where property papers in my name were kept. I hurried home, missing Samuel. Soon after, he returned to London.
Years passed. I heard Samuel married in London and stayed there. The news brought odd relief, though I never spoke of him. My daughter finished her GCSEs, my eldest son his BA. Daisy’s children, now my in-laws through her marriage to Oliver, were also done with school. Henry and I decided to ease our responsibilities. I opposed an exchange marriage for my daughter, but Henry insisted on betrothing her to Daisy’s son, Rory. I relented, knowing he’d not budge. Though Daisy had a good life with Oliver, Rory was rude and stubborn—traits I disliked.
Fate has its ways. My daughter adapted well to her marriage, thanks to her resilience. But Daisy’s daughter, Roxanne, married to my son, was spoiled and brash, showing no respect for anyone. She moved between homes without care. Unlike my sacrifices for Daisy or my daughter’s for Rory, Roxanne was defiant. One day, I tried reasoning with her, but she snapped back. As her mother-in-law and aunt, I scolded her sharply. That sparked chaos. Roxanne, wailing, ran to Daisy’s, claiming I’d mistreated her.
Daisy, furious, called Oliver, who was in a meeting, and Henry. Oliver promised to visit later, but Henry rushed to Daisy’s. Roxanne was sobbing, and Daisy demanded a divorce, saying I’d abused her daughter and my son mistreated her. Henry pleaded, “We’re siblings—family bonds don’t break. My daughter thrives in your home; we’ve kept yours happy. Don’t talk divorce.” Daisy retorted, “Don’t mention your daughter. Emma’s behavior is unacceptable.” Henry countered, “Divorce isn’t our way. These are small issues. Even big ones don’t justify it—it harms everyone, especially children.”
Daisy snapped, “If a wife’s unfaithful, shouldn’t she be divorced?” Henry was stunned. “Why such accusations? If you judged your own wife, you wouldn’t condemn my daughter.” Daisy shot back, “What’s in her conduct?” Henry defended me: “How dare you slander my virtuous wife? Have you no shame, blinded by love for your daughter?” Furious, Daisy revealed she’d kept the copied cassette. She fetched it, saying, “If I’m lying, hear your ‘virtuous’ wife’s words.”
Henry was shocked. He listened to the tape, returned home, and threw it at me, saying, “You, so pure, hid such filth. Now I see why you ran to Samuel’s and dropped that cup.” I was paralyzed, as if turned to stone. Death would’ve been kinder. My years of devotion crumbled. In a rage, Henry divorced me, a mother of four, shattering my dignity. I went to my mother’s, who lived alone. He ignored our successful marriage, my twenty-seven years of loyalty, and our children. That day, I learned a woman’s worth is fragile—men sin and walk free, but women are punished for mere suspicion. Now, my children, whom I raised with love, despise me and refuse to meet, leaving me longing in vain.
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