A Beloved Wife Rather Than a Perfect Daughter
“Leonie, choose: either me or your parents!”
My husband Roland said it with the stubbornness of a garden gnome that not even a hurricane could knock over.
“Roland, you know I’d follow you to the end of the world,” I replied. “But please don’t ignore my parents like this. You yourself said they’ve mellowed with age. Can’t you show them a little patience?”
“I want nothing to do with them,” Roland said coldly. “If you want to keep playing the good daughter, go visit them. But leave me out of it.”
He looked at me as if I had stolen the last apple strudel from his plate.
My first husband had been a military veteran who served in Afghanistan. Sebastian seemed heroic to me back then — hardened, decorated, a professional soldier with the rank of major.
When our son Matthias was born, my parents were absolutely delighted with their son-in-law and grandson.
“Leonie,” my father liked to say, “now your mother and I can rest in peace. Sebastian is a reliable man. We’ve placed you in good hands. Don’t disappoint us.”
But Sebastian completely ignored our son.
Matthias would call out, “Papa!” and Sebastian would rather go fishing, meet with his war buddies, or simply say he wasn’t in the mood.
Eventually Matthias stopped trying to get his father’s attention at all.
Sebastian’s depression grew worse. His moods changed like April weather. He became a stranger to me.
When Matthias was five years old, Sebastian once threatened him with his service pistol while drunk and still in uniform.
That was the end.
I realized my husband had serious trauma from the war. I could not risk my son’s life — or my own.
We separated peacefully.
But of course my parents blamed me.
“You’re a terrible wife!” they scolded. “Where will you ever find another man like him? You’ll regret this!”
Spoiler: I never regretted it.
In fact, the longer time passed, the more certain I became that I had made the right decision.
Sebastian eventually remarried — a deaf woman — after years of searching.
My second husband came into my life unexpectedly.
Because of my job, I often traveled to small towns to negotiate contracts. In one of those places I met Roland Peter.
He was tall, elegant, charming, and witty.
He caught my attention immediately.
At first we argued about business matters. But those arguments brought me back to his office again and again.
One day he said with a smile:
“Leonie, allow me to invite you to dinner. Tomorrow I’ll personally drive you home — wherever you wish.”
He kissed my hand like a gentleman.
I accepted.
Matthias was staying with my parents, so I allowed myself to relax.
The rest happened almost by itself.
Love flared up quickly, followed by passion.
Roland was six years younger than me, divorced, with a seven-year-old daughter.
It was obvious that my parents would dislike him.
Too young. Too carefree. Not serious enough.
But I didn’t care. I loved Roland more than I had ever loved anyone.
At least one of us deserved happiness.
“Mom, Dad,” I told them nervously one day, “I’m getting married.”
They stared at me in disbelief.
“You’re joking, Leonie! We thought you’d reconcile with Sebastian — for the child!”
“Forget Sebastian,” I said firmly. “He forgot Matthias first.”
Roland arrived with gifts for his future in-laws and a surprising proposal.
“After the wedding,” he said, “I’d like us all to live together as one big family. You’re getting older. We can help — groceries, doctors, whatever you need.”
My father scratched his head.
“Well… maybe that makes sense. But where would we live?”
Roland smiled dreamily.
“I want to build a three-story house. I’ll build it — and we’ll all move in.”
Our wedding was joyful.
Roland surprised us with an unforgettable Mediterranean cruise.
Later we traveled across Europe with Matthias and Roland’s daughter. Roland’s ex-wife was happy to send her daughter along on those trips.
Roland treated Matthias like his own son.
But I never managed to build a connection with his daughter Johanna. She looked at me sideways whenever we met and whispered things to Roland.
Three years later we moved into the house Roland had built.
It was in his home village — a beautiful place with a garden and fruit trees.
Roland had even planned the rooms thoughtfully:
My parents lived on the ground floor so they wouldn’t have to climb stairs.
Matthias had the top floor.
Roland and I lived on the second floor.
There was even a summer kitchen and a three-car garage.
Roland spoiled everyone.
A motorcycle for Matthias on his twentieth birthday.
A beautiful car for me on our anniversary.
A spa trip for my mother.
A fishing boat for my father.
But my parents and Matthias took everything for granted.
All I heard was criticism and complaints about Roland.
Roland remained calm.
“I want peace, Leonie,” he told me. “Let them talk behind my back. My conscience is clear.”
Years passed.
One day Matthias came home with a girl.
“This is Frieda. We’re living in my room now.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Excuse me — who exactly is she?”
Matthias ignored the question and pulled Frieda upstairs.
Soon Frieda began making demands.
“Leonie, Matthias and I want the second floor. A baby is coming. Talk to the old people.”
She sat at my kitchen table smoking and drinking my coffee as if she owned the house.
Respect was not part of her vocabulary.
“Frieda,” I told her calmly, “this is my house. Show respect to Matthias’s grandparents. If you don’t like it, the door is open.”
She screamed for Matthias.
“Matthias! Leonie is throwing me out even though I’m pregnant!”
Matthias rushed in and shoved me so hard that I fell and hit my head.
I woke up in the hospital with a concussion.
Later it turned out Frieda wasn’t even pregnant.
Roland was furious and called the police.
But I refused to press charges against my son.
I said I had slipped on ice.
The wound in my heart remained.
The son I had loved so much had chosen a stranger over his own mother.
Later Matthias knelt before me and begged forgiveness.
I forgave him.
But peace didn’t last.
One evening Roland said quietly:
“Do you know who slept in our bed while you were in the hospital?”
“Who?”
“Frieda.”
Apparently she had come into the room while Matthias was asleep after a party.
Roland threw her out immediately.
My parents used the situation to poison me against Roland.
“If you leave him alone for a minute,” they said, “he’s already with another woman.”
When you hear something a thousand times, you begin to believe it.
Roland and I started arguing about everything.
Eventually he moved out.
A month later I found out the truth: he had simply been walking with his daughter Johanna.
After returning, Roland told me calmly:
“Leonie, choose. Either me or your parents.”
It was the hardest decision of my life.
My parents were old and helpless.
But whenever Roland appeared, they attacked him like claws drawn.
So we left.
Roland and I bought a small house in the countryside.
Three rooms, a garden, and peace.
My parents called me screaming:
“You are no longer our daughter! You abandoned us for that man!”
But Roland and I lived quietly, happily, in love.
Years later, life finally calmed down.
Our mornings became simple and peaceful.
Sunlight filled the kitchen while we drank coffee together.
No shouting.
No complaints.
Only birds singing outside.
Roland once said softly:
“Do you know what I’ve learned? You can’t live for other people. You can only love them and hope it’s enough.”
I smiled through tears.
I was no longer just a perfect daughter.
Not just a wife.
I was finally myself.
In our garden the first roses began to bloom.
Matthias sent photos of his baby.
Johanna wrote that she was moving to Canada to start her own life.
My parents sometimes called. Sometimes they scolded. Sometimes they thanked me.
And I realized something important.
Happiness is not something you beg for.
It is a choice.
And after many wrong turns, I had finally made mine.
