**You Won’t Give You Away to Anyone**
“Inna, let’s get things straight from the start, shall we?” My newly minted husband gave me a questioning look. “I’ll provide for you, and in return, you won’t lay claim to anything. It all stays with my kids. Agreed?”
“Agreed, Harry,” I sighed.
That pact was made five years ago.
Truthfully, I never wanted to marry. I was perfectly content on my own. Maybe I’m just a hopeless egoist. I had a good job, a flat in London, a best friend, and a cat named Whiskers. What more could a girl want?
But time passed, and everyone around me settled down with husbands and children. My best mate, Emily, even moved to Germany with her family. Every time I ran into an old acquaintance, the same question popped up: “So, are you married yet, or…?” What was I supposed to say? That I’d been and gone, or that I was still waiting?
Then I met a bloke. Thought, why not? Change the status quo. Swap “spinster” for “respectable married woman.” Before he knew what hit him, I’d swept my Oliver off his feet. He was a decent chap. Easygoing, calm, and handy in the kitchen. Only one problem—I didn’t love him. Couldn’t force it, no matter how hard I tried. Oliver did his best to please me, and I appreciated it, but…
We lasted three years. Then, out of the blue, Oliver dropped dead. Not even 35. Heart trouble. Death doesn’t book appointments. The guilt ate me alive—blaming myself for my indifference, for not loving him enough. I swore off marriage for good.
Emily rang, bragging about her idyllic German life and insisting I visit. So off I went to Düsseldorf. Everything felt new and exciting. Emily chattered nonstop about her expat adventures.
“Inna, we’re invited to my husband’s boss’s birthday tonight. You’re coming, right? I’ve already told him about you. Harry’s dying to meet you—I showed him your photo,” she gushed.
“Have you lost the plot? Why would I want some German stranger? Not a chance!” I protested.
“Don’t be daft! Harry’s brilliant! Divorced, two grown sons, and on the hunt. Don’t pass this up, Inna!” she insisted.
“Fine, I’ll think about it,” I muttered, already caving. Little did I know I’d owe Emily a lifetime of gratitude later.
“No thinking! We’re marrying you off to him!” she declared.
I got the distinct impression this was all prearranged. Still, I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I went along.
That evening, Emily, her husband, and I arrived at Harry’s. A distinguished middle-aged man greeted us warmly. I was floored. My would-be suitor was downright dashing. He kissed my hand, ushered me to the table, and I’d have married him on the spot. All night, we exchanged meaningful glances, shared jokes, and grinned like lovestruck fools.
Turns out, Harry spoke decent English—his grandmother was from Manchester. Perfect. Plenty to talk about.
We swapped numbers. Just in case. Life’s unpredictable, after all.
After my trip, I flew home, daydreaming about Harry. I wanted love—to give it and get it. He called often, our chats stretching for hours. It felt like we’d known each other forever.
Then came the proposal. Without hesitation, I raced back to Düsseldorf.
Harry met me at the airport with an extravagant bouquet of red roses. My future husband knelt on one knee by the gate. I blushed furiously as bystanders watched the spectacle unfold. He kissed me passionately, swept me into his arms, and carried me to a taxi while onlookers cheered.
We spent three days in a whirlwind of love and recklessness. No words needed—everything was crystal clear.
Then Harry introduced me to his sons and mother. Cue the shock.
Two married sons gave me the once-over, exchanging glances that screamed, “Just what we needed—a stepmum.” His mother, looking every bit her 93 years, sat regally in her wheelchair. Neither sons nor mother spoke a word of English.
I braced myself for life with this “delightful” crew. What had I gotten into? Harry sensed the awkwardness, but the formalities were done. Now, we could eat in silence, avoiding small talk.
Thankfully, everyone lived separately. The sons were in another city, and Mum was in a care home. Once the wedding frenzy died down, Harry laid down the law: his estate would go to his sons after his death. My reward? A decent funeral. I agreed without hesitation. It was all notarised.
But the sons didn’t trust me. They made our lives miserable, demanding weekly visits to their city and obligatory check-ins at Mum’s care home. I endured it quietly. After all, I didn’t work, jetted off to Europe twice a year, and—most importantly—I adored my husband. The perks outweighed the hassle.
Four years passed in a blur of highs and lows. Then Harry fell ill. Bedridden. Caring for him, visiting his mother, and tolerating his sons consumed me. Life ground to a halt.
A year of relentless nursing changed Harry’s mind. He rewrote his will in my favour. I had no clue—but his sons did. They showed up at dawn, shaking like leaves. A nasty row erupted. They glared at me, pleading with their father: “Wives come and go, but sons are forever.”
I sat quietly, watching Harry wilt under their lecturing. Finally, I intervened—my German was decent by then.
“Relax, lads. I don’t want a thing except your dad’s health. Never had grand designs on his money.”
The sons summoned their wives, who’d been waiting outside. Two fraus eyed me suspiciously until their husbands nodded approval. Harry asked everyone to leave—except me.
“Inna, you’re really giving it all up? Why? You’ll be left with nothing,” he said, stunned.
“All I care about is you. The rest doesn’t matter. Just get better, Harry,” I whispered, fighting tears.
And I meant it.
Harry rallied, determined to recover. When I told him we were expecting, he perked up completely.
Our daughter, Harriet, was born soon after—named after his mother, who’d just celebrated her 94th birthday. Harry doted on her. His sons? Not so much. She was another heir, after all.
So I asked Harry to hand over everything to his sons now. We’d keep only the house. Peace was worth more than money.
He didn’t argue.
