Twenty Years of Pain and Disappointment: How My Husband’s Former Family Made My Life Miserable
As I shut the door of my London home for the last time, I felt like I was stepping into a wonderful new chapter of life. I wasn’t just moving abroad—I was heading to New York to become a wife. But not just any wife; I was marrying a respected man, Jewish, divorced, cultured, mature—who had left his previous family for me. A wedding in a grand Manhattan church seemed like the start of a fairy tale. The envy of my friends, the admiration of acquaintances, glamorous parties, social gatherings, magazine features—it seemed like destiny had finally given me everything a woman dreams of. Little did I know all of this was just a glossy cover concealing years of pain, betrayal, and loneliness.
Samuel was twenty-five years my senior. We didn’t have children—I was approaching forty, and he was already facing health issues. His grown daughters, my contemporaries, Catherine and Francesca, received me with nothing but disdain and frostiness from the start. To me, they were brazen and spoilt, always with hands outstretched. They would come to our home and leave with paintings, china sets, and figurines. They never asked for permission. Samuel remained silent. He silently allowed them to rob us—his new wife and home. While he lived with me, he continued to support his former wife financially. Yes, it was all in the prenuptial agreement. While we rented a modest apartment, his ex-wife enjoyed the family mansion and monthly financial support from his pension. I made him soups, sat by him when he couldn’t get out of bed, and watched as our money drained away into the past.
When he fell ill, our extravagant life came to an end. There were no seaside trips or travels—just pills, drips, and humiliation. And after his death? His daughters stormed into our home and took everything they deemed ‘family property.’ They broke the wardrobe door, took a chair, even the kettle. I remained silent. I didn’t have the strength to fight. All I was left with was a Jewish surname and a small flat in Hackney, London, rented out. Only that income allows me to survive because in New York—I am just another person in need, living in council housing. The local social services constantly check on me to see if I’m secretly working somewhere. I live under scrutiny, among unfamiliar faces, in coldness and a foreign language.
Yet, when I visit London, to my little flat, the neighbors look at me as a ‘New Yorker,’ with a hint of envy. Nobody knows I come not to relax but to breathe. Here, in my corner, I feel alive. Here, I’m not accused, not robbed, not watched for every move. Here—I find my peace. And no matter how much my friends envy my ‘American happiness,’ I know what New York really is—a city not of love, but of loneliness.
I have no children. No family. Only acquaintances who visit—spending the night to enjoy a ‘European’ roof for free, then vanish. What remains are video calls, conversations over the phone, and emptiness. I live on the edge—between two countries, two lives, two worlds. Sometimes I feel like dropping everything and returning for good. But where? To whom? Everything has been lived through, lost, betrayed. All that’s left is patience.
Maybe fate will have mercy. Maybe in my twilight years, I will live the life I’ve dreamed of. For now—I just hold on. Gritting my teeth. Like Oliver Twist. In New York.
