I turned away from my family, and it was all because of my wife.
At 44, I grew up in a family many would envy. My parents, both doctors with their own clinics in a small town near York, were caring, and my brother has been my best friend from childhood through our teenage years. It was a picture of perfect happiness, filled with warmth and support. But everything changed when she entered my life — the woman who turned my world upside down and ultimately tore it apart.
I met Alice during my first year at university. She was my complete opposite, like night and day. Her childhood was spent in a children’s home until she was adopted at age 11. But happiness was short-lived — her adoptive parents divorced, and Alice stayed with her mother, who soon became an alcoholic. Her connection with her father faded away. Her life was a struggle, but she stood strong — with an iron will and determination to escape her past. After school, she got into university, paying her way through with two part-time jobs, studying late into the night, and graduating with first-class honors. Her strength captivated me.
Our relationship started like a fairy tale until I brought her to my family home. Alice, having grown up in poverty, looked at our cozy house with barely concealed disdain. She held back then, but later, in the midst of an argument, she shouted that we were rich snobs living in a fantasy world. Those words struck me like lightning, but I swallowed my pride, attributing it to her tough past. We got through that crisis, although a crack had already formed.
Before our wedding, I told her my parents wanted to cover the expenses. Alice flared up: “I won’t be indebted to them!” Her voice trembled with anger, and I was unsure how to calm her down. I secretly spoke with my parents, and they, not wanting to stir conflict, quietly gave me the funds. I told Alice nothing. The wedding was beautiful, and she was proud, thinking we had done it all ourselves, proving our independence to the world. I stayed silent, afraid to shatter her illusion.
When we discovered we were expecting a daughter, my parents were overjoyed. One day, they brought baby clothes — tiny dresses and booties. I braced for a storm, but Alice unexpectedly smiled and thanked them. Yet as soon as they left, she coldly remarked, “No more handouts from your parents.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell my mum and dad — their joy for their granddaughter was so genuine, I didn’t want to extinguish it. When they asked what we needed, I lied and said we had everything.
But the storm finally hit before the birth. My parents turned up unannounced with a brand-new pram — an expensive one we had seen in the store. Alice went pale: “It’s an unnecessary luxury, take it back!” Words were exchanged, and a row erupted. She yelled, insulted them, while I stood there, dumbstruck. After the chaotic scene, her contractions started early. And who did she blame? My parents! She claimed they stressed her until she went into labor. For the first time, I stood up to her: “You’re wrong, it’s not their fault!”
Then she gave me an ultimatum, as harsh as a death sentence. Either I stay with her and our daughter, completely cutting off my parents and brother, taking not a penny from them, or we divorce — and I would never see my little girl again. My heart was torn to pieces, my head pounding. What could I do? I chose my wife and daughter, turning my back on the family that gave me everything. I rejected the love of my parents and the inheritance that could have provided us with a comfortable life. We moved to another town, far from our past.
For twelve years, I haven’t heard my mother’s voice, hugged my father, or shared jokes with my brother. I work as a school teacher, and each month’s end involves counting pennies to make ends meet. We live modestly, nearly poor, because Alice hates taking help. I look at her and no longer recognize the girl who once inspired me with her resilience. Now I see only anger — she resents the world, blaming everyone for her life not turning out like others’. What I once loved in her has turned into a deep-seated bitterness eating away at me.
I’m contemplating divorce. The children have grown, and I hope they’ll understand why I can no longer live like this. I made a grave, irreversible mistake with Alice. Her pride, which seemed like a strength, turned out to be a poison that tainted everything around us. Now I stand among the ruins of my life, asking myself: how could I have been so blind? How did I sacrifice my family for a woman who detests even the shadow of happiness?
