My late husband and I were married for 37 years before he left me for another woman, a girl close to our daughter’s age. We were married when he was twenty-two and I was eighteen. We had two children and worked hard for our money before my husband abandoned me for another lady, but not before taking my kidney.

I fled dysfunction, abuse, and rape in 1980. I lived in the Northern Territory of Australia with my mother and whatever of her several lovers was living with us at the moment. My Mama worked as a server during the day and as a party lady at night. My father died before I was born, and the only males I had contact with were the guys my mother brought home from time to time. And they changed so regularly that I gave up attempting to keep up.

When I was sixteen, Mom started seeing Rick on a regular basis, and all the other men faded away. For a fatherless girl like me, life looked to be becoming more solid. But Rick quickly revealed his real colours; he was more interested in being nude with me than in fathering me.

And my mother was completely uninterested in what Rick was doing to me. The more I attempted to tell her, the more she tried to silence me. She was completely unconvinced. I couldn’t blame her; she’d wasted years seeking love in all the wrong places, and now that she’d found “the one,” she wasn’t going to let me ruin it for her. So she beat me and told me to stop talking. She then married Rick.

When I tried to tell her one Friday night that Rick had come into my little room and exposed himself to me, she answered, “We are poor, Rick is affluent. He doesn’t want a child like you when he already has me. No, stop talking before he dumps me for another woman.”

Rick, who clearly adored the girl more than her mother, was encouraged by my mother’s rejection. As a result, when the abuse got too much for me, I fled. I had earned money by working as a vineyard labourer, so I grabbed all of my cash and left town. I was a few months shy of 17.

I worked odd jobs and slept wherever I could for the first several days. Then I got a job on a farm with accommodation and board. It was a difficult labour, and I lied about my age to acquire the job, but for the first time in my life, I discovered calm. To top it all off, there was Flynn, who kept an eye out for me, showed me the ropes, and protected me. After living with my mother’s fury for so long, his compassion for me was like a breath of fresh air. We were pregnant and married a year later.

My husband pledged to love and protect me at our court ceremony, and he also promised that things would get better. In response, I pledged to love and adore him, to constantly watch out for his best interests, to cheer for him, and to stay by his side till the end. I meant it when I said my vows because I loved him. And I believe he meant it as well.

A few months later, Flynn Junior was born. Flynn Senior, on the other hand, went to work. And things did improve. My husband worked his way up from farm worker to the foreman on a dairy farm. And I got a job as a winery production assistant in the vineyard where I worked. We were in love, young, powerful, and ambitious. And we worked hard to escape the poverty we had both known as children.

Hilaria, our second kid, was born when I was twenty years old. My spouse was a fantastic parent to our two children. And I couldn’t be more proud of the family we’d built. My house was nothing like the one I’d grown up in; it was calm, stable, and secure. My hubby adored me.

Flynn and a group of his pals decided to acquire their own farm five years after their marriage. Our lives began to improve after that. Flynn was always diligent and intelligent, and he was motivated to succeed in life. And we triumphed!

Flynn then became ill in 2013 and was diagnosed with chronic renal failure, which led to end-stage renal illness. Fighting the sickness was both difficult and frustrating! Flynn required a kidney transplant, and after a series of tests in which relatives and friends volunteered to see who would be a suitable match, it was determined that I was the right fit.

I donated one of my kidneys to my spouse

Flynn seemed to have a crisis of sorts when we both recovered from the operation and life resumed. He became easygoing and happy-go-lucky when he had been diligent and meticulous. And he threw caution to the wind and started living life on his own terms, disobeying physicians’ recommendations. He did anything he wanted.

My spouse resumed consuming beer and smoking cigars, both of which physicians had forbidden. And when rumours spread that he was having an affair with a stripper, I laughed. It wasn’t hilarious, though, since it was real.

He sat me down and gave me a scripted lecture about how brief life was. And how badly he desired to experience his second shot at life on the brink of disaster. He desired a life that was exciting and surprising. And now that our children were grown and gone, he desired to end our marriage. He said that life had become dull and predictable, and that, while he loved me, he wished to live it differently.

I kicked him out

That’s how my spouse abandoned me for another lady. She worked as a stripper. Blond. Her boobs were all bigger than her head. She was promiscuous and brazen. She also wanted his money. Hilaria and Flynn Jr. were furious. They advised me to divorce my spouse and go to the cleaners. After all, it was my spouse who abandoned me for another lady. But I had no intention of dividing our riches, shortchanging our children, or giving the stripper a dollar of my hard-earned money. As a result, I devised a better solution.

It was a terrible deal, but I took it because hell hath no fury as a woman scorned. And there is no anger in heaven like love converted to hatred.

Until death separates us. That phrase was in our vows; he spoke it to me and I said it to him. And believe me, when I said mine, I meant it. Flynn was my happy spot; I was completely smitten with him. Some say what he and I shared was trauma bonding. If this is accurate, we have traumatically connected for three decades and more. He was stunning, and he was both street and book-smart. Whereas neglect and sexual abuse had made me fearful and hesitant, he had turned his rough past into grit, and he used the poverty he had known as a youngster as a cautionary tale of what life didn’t have to be.

Flynn was the son of two drug users. They adored their youngster, but heroin and cocaine were far more appealing. By the age of eleven, he and his younger sister had moved out to live on a farm with their elderly grandparents. Life was idyllic, until Ari, his sister, tripped on a brown snake on the farm and was bitten to death.

His grandma fell into a deep, deep sadness and became bedridden as a result of his death. And, unable to care for both his ailing wife and a precocious preteen, his grandfather placed him in the foster care system once more. Until death separates us!

He was exposed to severe neglect and cruelty while in the foster care system. He made a break for it at the age of fifteen and never looked back.

In retrospect, he may have taken to me, protected and loved me so fiercely because he was trying to emulate what he should have done for his late sister. I’ll never know, but I do know that Flynn loved me and that I loved him back. With him, I received all I wanted and more. Flynn was the love of my life; I’d never loved anyone else before him, and I wasn’t going to love anyone else after him. To me, it was truly till death do us part.

And yet here we were, being torn apart by whatever was wrong with him. My Flynn was in his mid-fifties and experiencing a midlife crisis. My friends claimed that it was his genuine colours shining out and that what he was showing me was the essence of who he was. But I knew better; I knew how nice and compassionate he was, how loving and romantic he was. It wasn’t Flynn I was seeing. So I chose to love him even more, to show him what he was missing, to remind him of who I was, and to attempt to reassemble us.

He moved into our beach house, almost two hours drive away after I booted him out. And he seemed hellbent on humiliating me and our children. Every day, I heard about him riding around town with his bimbo in tow, blaring loud music and generally making a fool of himself. It was almost as though he was attempting to relive his stolen adolescent years. He couldn’t even be bothered to handle our company with the same zeal he had for decades. He transferred much of his duties to Flynn Jr. and lived like a guy with no responsibilities.

Then he was in a motorbike accident one day. He had gone too quickly around a bend and had skidded off the road. He fractured his hip, his arm, and his femur.

His tiny blond bimbo, of course, had no idea what to do with him. I received a call from the hospital less than three days after he was in, confirming that I was still his next of kin. I had to endure torturous doctor meetings, listen to his alternatives, and make the decisions that were in his best interests. He was extremely drugged and couldn’t understand what was going on. He had surgery and was then taken to our house, where I gently nursed him back to health. When his bimbo asked if she could come to see him, I said yes.

My son has ceased his visits. My daughter called and cursed me out, saying all the teachings I’d taught her about strength were all rhetoric. And my pals’ tongues were wagging, they gossiped endlessly, and they laughed at me. But, while everyone felt they knew me, Flynn, and I, they hadn’t been there with us while we were in the trenches establishing our lives and striving to go ahead. When I said, “Till death do us part,” the majority of them were not present.
As Flynn’s health improved, he began to request visits to the beach home. It became clear to me that he intended to maintain his newly acquired way of life. So I sat him down for a chat.

He was eager to hand on our fields and vineyards to our children. It made sense since they were well-educated, business-savvy individuals. And they were already deeply involved in the day-to-day operations of the company. And he preferred that I keep our family home while he retained the beach house. He wants to liquidate every other asset and share the proceeds 50/50 between us. He also desired a peaceful divorce, was no longer in love and desired to be free.

“We’ve come to the end of the road, Isla; we’ve had a fantastic run, but this is it for me. “I want to live free, so please let me go,” he pleaded.

My spirit darkened a few hues. I sat there, staring at the guy I pledged to love till the end. And yet, here we were, death had not taken us away. He was doing his part for us. But I had a greater proposition for him, and I still loved him. I wanted to cling to him, the safe haven I’d known for years after my own mother had abandoned me. So I showed my weakness, let him see my anguish, and let the tears flow. However, I did not ask him to stay. Instead, I presented my suggestion.

“Looking at how great your bimbo was able to nurse your wounds, I think I am your best chance at good care. And if we divorce I will have absolutely no legal authority to help you when you find yourself in another medical trouble. And given your history, anything can happen. So let’s have our agreement written and witnessed by legal attorneys, but let’s keep our assets together in order not to weaken our estate, and let’s separate. But let’s stay legally married. That way I will still have the authority to have a say in your care. If anybody has your best interest at heart, it is me,” I proposed.

I could see the wheels in his head turning. Arrogance has a way of blinding a person and making them feel invincible even.

“You would do that for me, Isla?” He asked surprised.

“Yes. I will,” I replied.

“One more thing then,” he added, “I don’t want to see you with another man.”

“Agreed,” I replied.

I had no desire to date another man. It was Isla’s turn. I was about to live my life on my terms. I had entered Flynn’s life from the chaos of my mother’s house. And I had given everything I had to him and our children. It was time to give it my best.

The legal paperwork was drawn by our lawyers. Our assets were split on paper, but in fact, they remained united. I had the family home, he had the beach cottage. With the exception of vineyards and farms, everything was split 50/50. We were all millionaires. However, we did not transfer any funds or liquidate any assets. Things remained the same. He even refused to do so.

My attorney cautioned me that I was dumb, but I refused to yield. I was determined to marry my Flynn until death does us part. I even invited his bimbo to join me for a meal. And I told her about all the things Flynn needed to be taken care of: his pills, appointments, meals, dos and don’ts. It’s all there. I meticulously placed everything out. She stated that she understood.

Three years later, in Nepal, Flynn had a religious marriage with his bimbo, conducted by a Hindu Sharma who stated God’s law was superior to man’s law, especially when it came to marriage. He declared her to be the finest sex he’d had in years. So, by God’s law, they became Mr and Mrs And according to the law, I was Mrs.

I did it to myself. I started doing yoga and climbing, and I travelled across the world with the few friends I had left; they didn’t understand me, but they still loved and embraced me. And I begged my children to trust me and love me as much as I loved them. As a single woman, I built out a new existence for myself and began to enjoy life again.

Flynn messed up his own relationship with our kids. Arguments, ultimatums, and compromises were made. But our family ultimately found a way to keep going ahead.

Flynn and I attended our daughter’s wedding as husband and wife, mother and father of the bride. Flynn would spend days, even weeks, in my place on occasion, when he needed a vacation from the lunacy he was living. He had the audacity to bring his bimbo on occasion, after all, we were sister-wives. But he usually arrived by himself. And we’d go out to eat, to the movies, or to see our kids. He had the best of both worlds, and he didn’t even think about how I felt.

He wasn’t looking after himself. And he’d started using pot and who knows what else. He put on weight. I could hear him breathing in the guest room from my bedroom. We were still married, but we didn’t sleep together. My heart hurt for him, but I understood when to keep my mouth shut.

After nearly five years of living that way, I received a phone call at midnight on December 24, 2018. It was a Las Vegas doctor. Flynn had had a major heart attack and a brain haemorrhage in a casino. He was with his bimbo, but they phoned me since I was his emergency contact, next of kin, and wife.

I paid him a visit. And I made all of the necessary judgements. The medics tried their best, and we evacuated him back to Australia, where he got hospice care for several months. Months later, I signed paperwork to have his breathing equipment removed. He couldn’t breathe on his own once they cut the power. My Flynn passed away. Until death does us part; death hath done our part.

One thing I learnt throughout my life – while surviving sexual abuse from my mother’s husband, budgeting on a limited salary as a young bride, and enjoying life as a wealthy woman – is that you have to be pleasant to live. I knew how to survive if there was one thing I knew how to accomplish.

Easy people are not easy fools

I knew it was only a matter of time before Flynn’s health deteriorated because of the way he was living. When I ticked off all the things his bimbo needed to do to keep him healthy, I knew she’d do the opposite. She didn’t care about him; all she cared about was his money. She had a reputation, as had her mother before her, and I had done my research.

I was preserving my children’s legacy, and my riches when I proposed that we stay married and keep our assets separate on paper but not in reality. But Flynn’s head was too far up his ass to understand I had enough intellect to play him.

The bimbo appeared in court. After all, her spouse had passed away. After all, my children had lost a father and I had lost a spouse when we met her there. I informed the court that my spouse and I were still in love and married. We were married and in love all those days he spent at my house eating dinners I’d made, all those times we went to the movies and out to supper while she was with him. I explained that he and I had agreed that he may see other women, including bimbos, since it made him happy, and as a decent wife, I wanted him to be happy.

Regardless of how much the bimbo and her mother pleaded, the court found no evidence of my and Flynn’s separation. I reclaimed the beach home and retained Flynn’s portion of the assets in addition to my own.

It was a major risk I took. I may have died before him, but I had safeguarded my children by having the asset split on paper. And, all else being equal, I suspected he was digging his own grave.

And that is how you fight back when the odds are stacked against you and you are too obstinate to give up. Until death does us part, Flynn. But the money and I never parted ways!

Source: Misskorang.com