My sorrow turned to joy: twenty years of marital bliss!
I thought I would share how the storm in my life transformed into a quiet harbour of happiness, how I found love where I least expected it. My name is Edward, and this is my tale—from shattered dreams to true contentment, the kind I never dared to hope for.
Eleanor and I had been sweethearts since our schooldays in the little town outside Oxford, where everyone knew each other. Later, we moved to Manchester together for university, and I never doubted we would marry—it was fate. Our closest friends, James and Oliver, had already thumped their chests, boasting they would stand as witnesses at our wedding. In our final year, Eleanor and I chose a date, toured half the city, and booked a riverside tavern for the reception—I was over the moon. But fate had a cruel trick in store.
It turned out Eleanor had been leading me a merry dance for three years, secretly meeting another fellow—some upstart from our faculty. The cad knew all about our plans yet twisted her heart to his own. She fell pregnant by him. On the very day I should have worn a wedding suit, another man stood in my place, and Eleanor walked down the aisle for him instead. I was gutted. The world turned grey. I locked myself away, wanting neither company nor daylight—the pain burned like a hot poker.
The only one who refused to abandon me in that black hour was James. He called daily, pounded on my door, all but dragged me out by the collar. He hauled me to pubs, bought me pies and ale, insisted life went on. I snapped at him, but his stubbornness wore down my misery.
Love Born from Vengeance
Then, not long after Eleanor’s wedding, James planted an idea in my head: pretend I had a new sweetheart to sting her pride. I seized on it—yes, I wanted her to feel even a sliver of my torment! James persuaded his friend, Beatrice, to play my beloved. We began appearing everywhere arm in arm, laughing, whispering—so convincing that soon the whole town murmured, “Edward and Beatrice are a pair.”
Word reached Eleanor. Beatrice and I even paid her a visit—I held her close, jested loudly, stared my former love in the eye. Eleanor clenched her jaw, fury burning in her gaze, while I crowed inside: “Take that!” Yet my heart ached still—had she not betrayed me, had she not left, it would have been my ring on her finger, not mine as a stranger in her home.
Time passed, and Beatrice and I kept up our pretence. Then, one evening, as I walked her home, I realised I wanted to embrace her not for show, but in truth. She looked up, smiled—and we kissed. Not for Eleanor, not for spite—but because we both wished it. A year of pretence had made me adore her—her gentle voice, her kindness, the way she steadied me. Beatrice was better than Eleanor in every way: honest, open, steadfast.
A year later, Beatrice and I married—no pretence this time. As I stood at the chapel, I felt fate had granted me a second chance. Eleanor and her husband came too—couldn’t resist. He drank too much, muttered about regrets, and she dragged him off, scarlet with shame. I watched them vanish and thought, “Goodbye, past.”
Twenty Years of Joy
Two decades have passed. Beatrice and I have raised two children—a son and a daughter—and our love only deepens with time. And Eleanor? Her marriage crumbled within years. She never found peace, drifting back now and then, weary-eyed, sipping sherry and sighing, “Edward, I should have been yours. My fault.”
I only smile, and Beatrice, laughing, adds, “Well, Eleanor, you let him slip—I caught him.” We embrace then, for we know she’s right. I became her world, and she became mine.
Who’d have thought such sorrow could birth such happiness? Twenty years of bliss—my answer to fate for every tear shed. Eleanor is but a shadow now, while Beatrice is my sunshine. Each day with her proves even betrayal can forge true joy. And I thank Providence it turned out just so.
