Love Triangle: Three Sides to the Story Read Free

whispered conversations on his cellular phone at nights? Out of the blue my husband is conducting business at 11:00pm in the night? He’s a bank manager, not a doctor, so something just doesn’t add up.
    I was getting uncomfortable standing under the piazza and my dour thoughts were bringing a banging headache between my eyes. As a teacher on the shift system, morning shift was my favourite time, though in the afternoons the sun could be a nuisance if you didn’t have your own transport.
    George was once again late to pick me up, and with the scorching hot afternoon sun belting down I was in no mood to listen to his lame excuses that bordered on the absurd. Husbands must think their wives are dummies unable to think and reason.
    A typical conversation would be: “George, you are two hours late for dinner. Where were you?”
    “At the office doing something extremely important.”
      “But I called your office and your secretary said that you had already left.”
    And he would say, “Oh, I went to look for my mother, the poor lady is so ill.”
    Problem is, his mother is a healthy woman and though we are not on the best of terms and he knows it, she would occasionally call me to inquire about her grandchildren.
    And so I’d watch him tie himself up, and being the idiot that I am, I silently suffer….
    I’d convince myself that George is a Christian. He loves me. We have been through too much to give up now, and besides I have no concrete evidence that he is cheating.
    Finally, the cheater drives up in his Honda Accord. He opens the passenger door for me, his head bent. I thought resentfully how handsome he looks.
    Till death do we part? Ha!
    “You look frightful,” are his first words of greeting.
    No, “hi darling, how was your day?”
    No smile, no touch.
    I considered going on a Where were you? and Who were you with rant, but I settled for “Hot sunny days do that to you,” and looked outside at the beautiful landscape.
    Mandeville was so beautiful and mostly cool. As we headed for the hills, the place became almost cold. He made no attempt at conversation. He just switched on the radio and listened to his ever-present jazz CD.
    Oh, I hate jazz, and right at this moment in time, I hated my husband. Now I know why women seek out the woman that their spouse has been cheating on them with and pick a fight.
    She, whoever she is, does not understand the damage that an extramarital affair causes a wife who has to put up with his coldness and the ugly sneer that can be detected deep in his eyes as he compares her to you.
    I started to cry. I just could not help it. I clung to the door handle of the car and bawled like a baby. He looked over at me and was obviously alarmed. His face had this comical frightened look as if he was looking at a mad person.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked, his hand trembling as he touched my shoulder. “I thought you did not have PMS.”
    At his weak attempt at a joke I wanted to scream: “you’re a liar and a cheat and I hate you!” But I just sat there and sobbed, feeling weak and helpless while my guilty husband stared at me aghast.
    I could see his mind whirring. Did I give any clues away? Did somebody tell her something? I silently sobbed and resisted all attempts he made to touch and reach out to me.
    When he pulled up at our gate in Manchester Heights, I clumsily took out all my things from the car and opened the front door, of the house that we bought together ten years ago, and slammed it as hard as I could. I was not in the mood for one of his lectures about temper tantrums and acting like adults. And the oft-repeated cliché “Let us talk about it.”
    I lay crossway on our bed and stared at the ceiling. I wanted to call my mother, but I was too tired to move. I thought of my aunt, and the family joke of her wandering husband came to haunt me. I did not want to be a family joke and unlike Aunt Sylvie I was not going to turn a blind eye. I just did not know how I was going