To Forget or to Return? A Journey of Choices and Memories

FORGET OR RETURN?

Emma, youll be the starfish in my aquarium, said my suitor with unwavering confidence.

My eyes widened.

Youre serious, Harry? I want to be your only starfish, not just one of the lot Are you married? Why am I hearing this now, when Im flying to your hometown?

No, Im not married, but Harry hesitated.

Spill it, I want the whole truth about English gentlemen.

You see, Emma, my parents have already picked a bride for me. I cant defy them. We could arrange a temporary marriage, but youd have to adopt my faith. Otherwise he turned his gaze to the airplane window, the clouds drifting past.

At four months pregnant, his words drained the colour from my face. Why say all this up in the air? He could have warned me long before boarding.

I closed my eyes, tried to steady my breathing. I wasnt about to jump out of a plane, not even in a panic. My relatives and colleagues had warned me:

Dont get tangled, Emma, that worlds a different mindset, different attitudes toward women. Youll end up biting your own elbow

I ignored them, never suspecting the trap.

I was a lecturer at the university, teaching foreigners to speak English. Id helped countless overseas students navigate a land that wasnt theirs. I treated them all the same, as ordinary pupils.

In September a new cohort arrived, and among them was Harry, a striking young man from a small town in Yorkshire. He was tall, goodlooking, mischievousa proper English rogue.

Harry lived in the student halls, studied diligently, and was politely courteous. One day he approached me with an unusual request:

Lecturer Emma, how much do you charge for extra tutoring?

Nothing. Why do you ask? Youre doing fine anyway, I replied, never realising Id stepped into a cleverly woven net.

Emma, may I invite you to a consultation? Harrys eyes flicked toward me.

If you insist. Whats the topic? I answered, unsuspecting.

Relationships, he said shortly.

That evening I entered the cramped halls common room, where Harry waited impatiently. I looked around and gagged. How could students survive in such a place? The furniture was old, some broken; the windows were smeared with grime, so no one could see out; hot water was a myth.

Yet on the coffee table sat a vase holding a fresh rose, a clean plate with washed fruit, and a bottle of red wine.

Hes prepared. Not for nothing, I thought.

Harry and I talked about life, studies, his parents. Everything seemed proper, until that night

The following evenings and nights rushed by like wild horses across the moors. Harry and I fell into abyss, rose to the sky, vanished from the ground. Ten years later I would not wish to relive that feverish love. The fallout was heavy. I should never have become so entangled. The entire department knew of our liaison. Colleagues whispered, students sneaked glances at our tangled romance.

Emma, dont lose yourself. Stop while you can. Why cling to Harry? He has younger women waiting back home. In some parts of the world a girl can marry at thirteen. Youre twentyseven. Arent you tired of men? warned a colleague whose husband drank away his days.

Oh, girls, Id love to feel that whirlwind of passion again! sighed another unmarried teacher, dreaming of a life full of fire.

I had lost myself. I would have followed Harry to the ends of the earth, not to Yorkshire.

During the summer break we flew to his familys cottage. Midflight Harry began to speak of strange plans. He wanted to name me his lead starfish, essentially the senior wife in his future household. The thought of sharing him terrified me.

The plane touched down in the English countryside. Harrys friends, all sunkissed and smiling, greeted us. They escorted us to his parents house. I was welcomed warmly, though his parents spoke only with thick Yorkshire accents; I conversed with Harry in English. In a corner sat a teenage girl, about fifteen, her eyes the only thing visible beneath the modest clothing.

Emma, this is Lucy, the girl we intend for our son, Harrys father introduced, as if it were the most ordinary thing.

I wanted to sink into the floor. Lucy was not a beauty; I, a tall brunette with a curvy figure, stood out. Yet I was twentyseven, and Lucy was fifteen

I returned home crestfallen, the pregnancy advancing. Soon I swapped my bright wardrobe for drab coats and modest scarves, abandoning makeup except for mascara and eyeliner, focusing only on my eyes. I agreed to a temporary marriage, embraced the Church of England, and tried desperately to please my husband. I loved Harry and wanted to obey him in everything.

Seven years passed. Harry, Lucy, our children moved to London. I gave birth to three boys; Lucy had two daughters. Harry provided for us all, but a bitter nausea settled in my gut. I felt like an ageing lover, an outsider. My jealousy of Lucy, now the official wife, surged whenever Harry glanced at her; my heart swelled with unbearable ache.

I could not bear it any longer. I wanted to flee this imagined paradise, but I feared losing my sons. In a divorce, children typically stayed with the father. Still, I resolved to take a desperate step. I told Harry I wanted to return to my own country.

Emma, what more do you need? he asked, genuinely surprised.

Im sorry, Harry. Youll never understand my soul. Please let me go, tears choked me.

Very well, stay with your family. The children and I will miss you. Return soon, Harry brushed my shoulder gently.

A month later I flew back home.

Two long years have slipped by since then. I speak with my children and Harry on the phone. Lucy has given birth to a son. My boys grow, remembering me. I am torn, longing, weeping, and yet nowhere to go.