**Too Handsome for Happiness**
Irene first met him in the local library—he was after some sports encyclopedia, while she, as usual, was lost in the classics section. Edward looked like he’d stepped off a magazine cover: tall, athletic, with dark wavy hair, green eyes, and lashes longer than most girls’. For a moment, Irene even froze—he seemed too unreal to notice someone like her.
She wasn’t unattractive—slim, soft-featured, fair-haired, with a quiet voice—but next to Edward, she felt invisible. When they started dating, her friends didn’t hold back:
“Honestly, love, he’s out of your league. Blokes like that never stick around. He’ll have his fun and be off.”
But Irene was happy. He didn’t shower her with flowers or grand speeches, but he was always there—walking her home, taking her to the cinema, holding her so tightly her knees went weak.
The first time she brought him home, her mother’s expression said it all. Margaret, a sharp and thoughtful woman, pulled her aside after dinner.
“Do you really think he’s serious?”
“Yes, Mum. I love him. He’s the one.”
“Irene… A man that handsome is never truly yours. There’ll always be others chasing him. And living in constant jealousy? That’s no life.”
Irene flushed. “Is this because of Dad? Don’t judge everyone by him! Edward’s different.”
“Just don’t rush. Time tests love. The real kind lasts.”
Irene nodded but secretly had no doubts. They carried on, but slowly, Edward started vanishing—gym, swimming, lads’ nights out. Not wanting to be left behind, she tagged along to his workouts, though she hated every minute.
At the pool, his gaze wandered to girls in bright bikinis; at the gym, he took flirting as his due. And she? She felt like a shadow. One day, after a session, she caught a cold and collapsed into bed.
“Bit pathetic, aren’t you?” Edward smirked. “Not really your scene.”
Her mother’s words echoed louder. Edward grew distant; she grew miserable. Then one day, he simply vanished—no call, no explanation. As if none of it had ever happened.
Seeing her wilt, her mother snapped into action. “Right. Hairdresser. Then fabric—new clothes.”
Irene didn’t argue. A fresh cut, a handmade dress, and she stepped back into the world. At a village dance, she caught eyes. One man—Oliver—was nothing like Edward: plain, unassuming, but with a kind smile. A month later, he proposed.
“Do you love him?” her mother asked.
“He’s the only one who only looks at me. Isn’t that love?”
Their wedding was simple but warm. A daughter came within a year, a son three years later. And Irene? She found real happiness—a home, children, a husband who cherished her.
Sometimes Edward’s name came up. Friends murmured he’d left his wife for another woman, that he was still dazzling but hollow. Irene just shook her head.
“Well, everyone finds their own path. The trick is finding someone who stays *with* you, not just for themselves.”
And at home, waiting for her, were the voices, hands, and eyes she loved. And her mother—the wise one who’d saved her from a pretty disaster.