Twenty Years of Pain and Disappointment: How My Husband’s Former Family Turned My Life into a Nightmare
When I last slammed the door of my London home, it felt like stepping into a new, beautiful chapter of my life. I wasn’t just leaving for any foreign land; I was heading to New York City to become a wife. Not just any wife, but the spouse of a respected man—Jewish, divorced, intellectual, mature—who left his past family for me. A wedding under the arches of St. Patrick’s Cathedral seemed like the beginning of a fairy tale. The envy of friends, admiration from acquaintances, cocktail parties, and photos in magazines made it seem like fate had finally given me what every woman dreams of. Little did I know it would be a glossy cover hiding years of pain, betrayal, and loneliness.
Samuel was twenty-five years my senior. We didn’t have children—by the time I was pushing forty, he was already starting to falter in health. His grown daughters, my contemporaries, Catherine and Frances, initially treated me with disdain and coldness. To me, they seemed bold, spoiled, with outstretched hands. They would come to our home and leave with paintings, china sets, and figurines. Not once did they ask for permission. Samuel said nothing. Silently, he allowed them to rob us—his new wife and home. Though he lived with me, he continued to pay alimony to his former wife. Yes, all of this was stipulated in the prenuptial agreement. While we modestly rented an apartment, his ex-wife enjoyed the family mansion and monthly payments from his pension. I made soups for him, stayed by his side when he couldn’t get out of bed, while the money went to his past.
When he fell ill, our luxurious life ended. No more coastlines or travels—just pills, IVs, and humiliation. And after his death? His daughters stormed our home and took everything they deemed “family property.” They broke the cupboard door, carried off the armchair, even the kettle. I stayed silent. I didn’t have the strength to fight. All I had left was a Jewish surname and a small flat in Camden, rented out. Only that income lets me survive, because in New York City, I am just one more person in need, living in public housing. The local social services constantly check to see if I’m lying, if I’m secretly earning somewhere. I live under scrutiny, among strangers, in the cold, surrounded by a foreign language.
And when I travel to London, to my tiny flat, neighbors look at me like I’m 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, no one reproaches me, robs me, or watches my every step. Here is my silence. And no matter how often my friends call, envying my “American happiness,” I know what New York really looks like—not a city of love, but a city of solitude.
I have no children, no family. Only acquaintances who visit—to spend the night and take advantage of a free “European” roof. Then they disappear. I’m left with Skype, conversations on the landline, and emptiness. I live on the edge—between two countries, two lives, two worlds. Sometimes I want to drop everything and return for good. But where? To whom? Everything has already been lived, lost, betrayed. All that remains is endurance.
Perhaps fate will yet show some mercy. Maybe, in my later years, I will live the life I dreamed of. For now, I just hold on, teeth clenched, like Gavroche in New York.
