Twenty Years of Pain and Disappointment: How My Husband’s Former Family Turned My Life into a Nightmare
When I closed the door of my London home for the last time, it felt like I was stepping into a new and beautiful chapter of my life. I wasn’t merely moving abroad; I was heading to New York to become a wife. Not just anyone’s wife, but that of a respected man—Jewish, divorced, cultured, mature—who had left his previous family for me. A wedding in St. Patrick’s Cathedral seemed like the beginning of a fairy tale. The envy of my friends, the admiration of acquaintances, high-society gatherings, parties, pictures in magazines—it seemed that fate had finally granted me the dreams every woman has. Little did I know that all this was merely a glossy cover concealing years of pain, betrayal, and loneliness.
Samuel was twenty-five years older than I. We never had children—I was nearing forty, and he was already experiencing health issues. His grown daughters, Catherine and Frances, who were my age, initially treated me with disdain and coldness. To me, they seemed brazen and spoiled, with hands reaching out for everything. They would come to our home and leave with paintings, china, and figurines, never asking for permission. Samuel stayed silent. He silently allowed them to rob us—his new wife and home. He lived with me, yet continued to pay alimony to his ex-wife. Yes, all of this was outlined in the prenuptial agreement. While we modestly rented a flat, his ex-wife enjoyed the family mansion and monthly transfers from his pension. I cooked him soups, sat by his side when he couldn’t get out of bed, while the money slipped into the past.
When he got ill, our lavish life ended. There were no beaches or travels—just pills, drips, and humiliation. And after his death? His daughters stormed into our home and took everything they deemed “family-owned”. They broke cupboard doors, took the armchair, even the kettle. I remained silent. I didn’t have the strength to fight. All I was left with was a surname and a small apartment rented out in Brixton, London. Only this income keeps me afloat because, in New York, I’m just another person in need, living in council accommodation. Local social services constantly check to see if I’m hiding earnings somewhere. I live under a microscope, amidst unfamiliar faces, in the cold and a foreign language.
And when I return to London, to my little flat, neighbors look at me as a “New Yorker”, with slight envy. No one knows I come not to relax, but to breathe. Here, in my tiny corner, I feel alive. Here, no one reproaches me, robs me, or watches my every step. Here lies my solitude. And no matter how often friends call, envying my “American happiness,” I know what New York truly is—not the city of dreams, but the city of loneliness.
I have no children. No family. Just acquaintances who visit—stay the night and enjoy the free “European” roof. Then they vanish. Only Skype, calls on the landline, and emptiness remain. I live on the edge—between two countries, two lives, two worlds. Sometimes, I want to drop everything and go back for good. But where? To whom? Everything has already been lived, lost, betrayed. Only one thing remains—patience.
Maybe fate will be kinder. Maybe, at least in my later years, I’ll live as I dreamed. For now—I simply endure. Gritting my teeth. Like Oliver Twist. In New York.
