Love Triangle: Three Sides to the Story Read Free Page A

to approach this … this … monster in my life.
    He came into the room with a perplexed expression on his face but the underlying guilt in his eyes was confirmation enough that I was not hallucinating or creating stories, like I knew other women do to their poor husbands.
    He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands folded over his chest, and he cleared his throat. He then loosened his tie, the one he said his secretary gave him for his birthday.
    His secretary had expensive tastes. I resentfully turned my head away.
    “Let’s talk about this sudden outburst, Marie,” he said authoritatively, obviously struggling to put some bluster in his voice.
    “Leave me alone,” I whimpered, shielding my eyes from his finely chiselled face. He was indeed a handsome man, with a nice personality, good job and above average income.
    What else could a woman ask for in this Jamaican economic slouch? Never mind the fact that he is married, our culture celebrates infidelity. ‘Nuff gal and gal inna bungle.’
    I never knew George was a dancehall fan. Then again, it seems as if I don’t know George at all. He sat there silently. I could sense his confusion from afar.
    “Tell me,” he rasped, “why do you cry?”
    He sounded so loving that I melted in tears as he rocked me against him. How ironic. I was crying on the shoulders of the one who is causing me so much pain.
    “Hush,” he whispers, kissing my hair and my face. “I love you, Marie. Don’t cry.”
    Oh, my God. My husband loves me. He’s probably just overworked, and here I am secretly accusing him of all manner of atrocities. I clung to him, my mind grasping at straws.
    “What’s wrong?” he asks again.
    This time I sniffle and explain to him that things are just not the same between us. I tell him that I feel left out of his life, that I am not secure in his love. And of course he tells me earnestly that he loves me. He’s sorry for the lack of attention but things are hectic at work.
    Do I buy it?
    Of course, he’s my husband of twelve years. He would not lie to me.
     

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    After three weeks of having my old husband back, I went to visit his mother—there is no love lost between us.  Even after twelve years of marriage to her precious George, I am barely tolerated. I suspected that he being her only child has something to do with that but he defied her wishes and made me his wife. I remember asking her one day, after George and I had been married for six months, what was wrong with me? Why did she despise me so much?
    She was in her garden, her straw hat shielding her face and her purple dyed hair in a perfect bun. She took off her gloves, and flexed her fingers before replying.
    “You are too young, you are not from the right background, and your skin shade is too dark. I shudder to think that George’s children will not be acceptable.”
    I remember feeling faint and very shocked. Who knew that such archaic beliefs still existed in twenty-first century Jamaica?
    I was two months pregnant at the time, and shortly after, I had a miscarriage that almost took my life.  I wondered if Mrs. Cameron was displeased that I had not died.
    To date, it's not obvious from her worshipful appreciation of her grandchildren that she ever made that statement, but I remember. And I firmly put a stop to any friendly overtures she sends my way.
    So now we are at an impasse. I visit her whenever her son prompts me to do so and whenever the children want to go to see their grandmother. But personally, I prefer to go to see her before she comes to see me. The criticisms of my household I can stand, but when she presumes to rearrange my home I get livid. The children were at my brother’s house so I had a little time to visit her anyway. Of course I greeted her with the perfunctory kiss; she offered me drinks; I politely declined.
    “So where's George?” she asks, her high-pitched English affected accent never failing to grate my nerves.
    “He’s gone to