In my family, I was a masterpiece of beauty—a vision of rosy cheeks, a heart-shaped face, and golden hair that cascaded like sunlight. They called me “Fairy Rose,” a name whispered with awe. Mother named me Lily, raising me with tender devotion, her prayers weaving dreams of a life brimming with joy and abundance. Yet, some unseen fault of mine must have cursed those hopes, for her blessings never took root. After completing my MSc, a man named Simon appeared, as if conjured from the shadows. One glance, and he claimed me as his own.
In mere meetings, Simon charmed Mother, his polished manners and tales of wealth dazzling her like light on glass. Freshly employed, he pressed for haste—a swift engagement, a hurried wedding. I was swept along, voiceless, unable to protest. My cousin Sean loved me quietly, his heart steady but unspoken. No barriers stood between us; whispers in the family called us a celestial pair, like the moon and sun. But fate had etched a different script. When my childhood friend Sarah learned of my engagement, she rushed to Mother, pleading for me to be promised to Sean. Mother’s response was firm: “Honest folk keep their word, and mine is given.”
Two months later, I was married. Mother’s counsel echoed: “Your husband is your guiding star.” So, I stepped into Simon’s home, surrendering all to him. At first, he seemed the perfect husband, his affection wrapping me in warmth. I felt the luckiest woman alive. Children came—sons and daughters—blessings from above. Simon’s words, “No one in this world is dearer than you,” filled my heart. As my parents’ only child, I inherited Mother’s estate after Father’s death. Unbeknownst to me, Simon’s eyes gleamed not for me, but for that wealth.
Blinded by love, I signed the estate to him. He sold it swiftly, funneling the money into his business. His ventures flourished, wealth pouring in like a monsoon. But with riches came a shift. The man I adored revealed a darker side—restless, drawn to fleeting pleasures. He distanced me from my family, weaving lies I believed, severing ties with those I loved. When clarity pierced the fog, I saw the truth: I’d been ensnared by deceit.
While I tended to our children’s studies, Simon vanished for hours. The first decade of marriage passed in a blur of motherhood and devotion, but unease crept in. I found a number in his diary and dialed it, my hands trembling. A woman’s voice answered, cool and mocking: “I’m his girlfriend too, darling. I don’t need to write numbers—I remember them.” Other women revealed his secrets, each confession a dagger. Confronted, Simon flinched, then hid his diary. Truth unraveled like a fraying thread, and my world crumbled beneath me.
One evening, he returned reeking of liquor, his gentleness replaced by cruelty. He struck me in a drunken rage, cursed our children, transforming from my cherished deity into a savage beast. Nights became a torment of tears, his mockery stinging as he called me mad, ridiculing my love. Yet, for my children, I pressed on, pouring my heart into their upbringing, shielding them from his venom.
Simon’s betrayals grew brazen. He flaunted his affairs at hotels, lying about “business trips.” Friends and drivers whispered of his escapades with call girls. I realized he’d always been this way, his love a façade I’d been too blind to see. I’d forsaken everything—family, identity—for him, but he was never mine. The weight of his deceit sickened me, my health fading under the strain. He spread rumors, claiming I was ill, unable to please him. My beauty, loyalty, and grace were trampled as he surged forward, leaving me a portrait of loneliness and shame.
After twenty-five years, with our children grown and marriageable, Simon secretly wed a young woman—a call girl, cloaked in stolen vows. Four months later, during our daughter’s wedding, the truth surfaced. Our son-in-law, Ethan, had booked a suite at a luxurious Murree hotel for his honeymoon. There, he glimpsed Simon, arm-in-arm with his new bride. Their eyes met, and Simon’s gaze darted away, guilt betraying him. Ethan called me, his voice heavy: “Sir’s celebrating his honeymoon here.” Shame and grief crashed over me. What father shames his daughter so?
Memories of my sacrifices flooded back—enduring his cruelty, hoping he’d return to me. My heart shattered, its pieces scattered like ash. I lacked nothing—beauty, refinement, lineage, education—yet he sought women who offered reckless abandon, a thrill I could never embody. His drinking worsened; he beat me, cursed our children. The man who’d once vowed love was a stranger, his mask crafted to deceive Mother and claim me.
One day, his friends called, warning his life was in danger. I rushed to a den of infamy, dragging him from its clutches. He claimed he was “helping” those women, no illicit ties. Foolishly, I believed him again, my heart clinging to hope. But he was a master manipulator. One afternoon, while I slept, he stole the key to my safe, taking every jewel. When I awoke, the safe gaped empty. Suspicion fell on our loyal servant, whose daughter’s wedding loomed. I accused him, my words sharp. He swore his innocence, but doubt clouded my judgment.
My cousin Solomon, a police officer, overheard and took the servant to the station. The police did what they often do—punished the innocent. Yet Simon stayed silent, never admitting he’d stolen the jewels. Days later, in the market, I saw his new wife, adorned in my stolen treasures. My driver, hesitant, confirmed the truth. I nearly collapsed, the betrayal searing my soul. But I held back, knowing a scene would tarnish my dignity further.
I called Solomon, urging him to release the servant. “He’s innocent. I’ve seen the thief—and my jewels on her.” Guilt consumed me for wronging a loyal man. I offered Solomon twenty-five thousand rupees for the servant’s daughter’s wedding, a small atonement. He refused, and never returned to our door. His pride was wounded, and my apologies echoed unanswered. We, the privileged, often misjudge the loyal, praising deceivers while doubting those who pray for us.
I hid Simon’s sins from Mother, sparing her pain. But when his photos with other women spilled from his pockets, I broke, weeping in her arms. She offered hollow comfort: “Men are like bees, flitting from flower to flower. Your home is with your children’s mother. Endure with grace.” Her words, once my guide, had led me to this marriage. For her, for my children, I held our family together, but the cost changed me. Once called a beauty queen, I now saw a hollow reflection, eroded by betrayal.
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Simon lives with his new wife. My daughters, married into good homes, face taunts about their father’s debauchery. Had I not endured, their futures would’ve suffered. My sons are grown, yet loneliness doesn’t haunt me—it’s the insult to my womanhood that burns. Why don’t society’s chains bind men to fidelity after decades of marriage? A man who betrays after twenty-five years can never belong to another. I endured for my children, my true wealth. Let other women, bound to men like Simon, find strength in that truth.
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