CLEO DIDN’T CRY when she placed the flowers on her husband’s grave. She’d cried buckets that morning, once she realised she’d forgotten the anniversary of Martin’s death. When she explained to her very concerned boss that she always visited Martin’s grave with her mother-in-law on the anniversary of his death, he’d given her the rest of the day off, insisting that she collect Doreen and go.
So here she was with her eyes strangely dry whilst Martin’s mother cried buckets instead.
Maybe she was all cried out. Or maybe—just maybe—she’d finished with grieving. She’d loved Martin. In the end. And in the beginning. But there’d been that awful time in the middle when she hadn’t loved him at all. Hard to stay in love with a man who tried to run every aspect of your life, from where you worked to what you wore and who your friends were. At home, it had been just as bad. From the day they were married, Martin took control of the money, paid all the bills, and made all the decisions.
Her own fault, of course. At first, she’d liked his ‘take control’ attitude, had thought it manly. His decisiveness had appealed to her own lack of confidence and maturity. She’d been engaged at twenty, married at twenty-one. Just a baby, really, in more ways than one.
But all babies eventually grew up, and she’d come to see how stifling it was being married to a man who wanted you to stay totally dependent on him, who wouldn’t even let you have a baby until the mortgage was totally paid off so he could afford for you to be a full-time stay-at-home mother, a prospect that hadn’t appealed to Cleo. She’d liked her job in the marketing section of McAllister Mines, despite it having been chosen for her by Martin, solely because he’d worked there in the accounts division.
Cleo had made the momentous decision to leave Martin on the very day when he’d told her that he’d been diagnosed with cancer, a particularly aggressive melanoma, which the doctor had warned might not be curable.
It had turned out it wasn’t. But it had taken Martin two long years to die, during which time Cleo had learned to love him again. How brave he’d been during that terrible time. And how sorry for what he’d put her through during their marriage. Oh, yes, he knew exactly what he’d been doing all along; had known it was wrong, but said he couldn’t seem to help himself. Apparently, his father had treated his mother the same way, and consequently it was all he’d known as a model for marriage. In Cleo’s eyes it was no excuse, but it was at least an explanation for his behaviour.
His debilitating illness forced him to give up his controlling nature, gradually relying on Cleo to do everything for him. The balance of power shifted substantially, giving Cleo a new confidence in her ability
