The lessons of my first marriage...

YESTERDAY would have marked a special anniversary — had fate not decided otherwise.

For on February 23, 1968, I walked into a register office after a whirlwind, three-month romance, and thus stepped forward into a future of equality, shared ambition, foolishness, three births, two children, success, grief, temptation, glamour, woe, excitement, delight, anger, dishonesty, extravagance, gaiety, tears and terrific conversation.

I always assumed my first husband and I would one day celebrate a golden wedding, just as we’d toasted silver, pearl and coral. But it was not to be.

In 2003 that marriage careered into a cul-de-sac and crashed. Still, I rejoice at being left with such memories, as well as enduring feelings of affection and respect which make me realise, with quiet tenderness, that the celebration is here, after all, even if in disguise.

I realise that all the things which happened during our 35 years — and since — put me in training for this column. For it would be impossible to write honestly were it not for lessons learnt along the way.

Of course, people enduring dark times detest being told things will get better. When my daughter was very ill I used to whisper that one day she would realise how much she’d gained from being so miserably set aside from her peers. Naturally she didn’t want to know! Yes, it can be horribly glib to say that good comes out of suffering — yet there is some truth there.

If, ultimately, loss and sadness can leave you just a little wiser and more accepting instead of angry and bitter, then it’s possible to look back and understand what’s happened. And even feel grateful for where it led.

A fragment by the American poet Mary Oliver expresses this idea with brilliant economy. It’s called The Uses Of Sorrow: Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift.