“I left because I could bear it no longer.” How my husband presented me with a fait accompli one day—bringing another woman’s children into our home.
Thomas and I began courting when his marriage had long since crumbled. He was free, divorced, living quietly on his own, and seemed steady, composed, and sensible. Back then, I believed him to be the one with whom I could build a true future. He never spoke of his former wife—not a single harsh word, not even a passing mention—as though that chapter of his life had never existed.
I never pressed him. I had no wish to dredge up the past when everything between us seemed right. We grew close quickly—from the very first meeting, it was clear we saw the world in much the same way. We moved in together almost at once. Our life together was peaceful, without storms or fits of temper. The only thing I knew for certain was that Thomas had two children from his previous marriage. He visited them, bought them gifts, sometimes stayed with them till evening. I had no part in their lives. His former wife despised me fiercely, and so I was kept well away from the children.
Four years later, Thomas and I married. That same day, I discovered I was expecting. It was a joyous moment—Thomas beamed with happiness, held me close, fussed over me, even rushed out at midnight for strawberries and ice cream. I felt cherished. It all seemed real. Until one evening.
He returned from visiting the children and said bluntly, “Emma, my children will be living with us now. Abigail—his former wife—has gone abroad with her new man. No one knows when she’ll return. She’s left them with me.” I stayed silent. I didn’t shout or argue. I only listened as the dream I’d built crumbled to dust in my mind. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t explained—merely delivered the news as an unchangeable fact.
Within a week, the children were with us. I tried to manage—cooked, cleaned, attempted to bridge the gap. But they wanted nothing to do with me. They ignored my requests, refused the meals I prepared, scattered their belongings through the house, laughed in my face, and called me a stranger. Once, the eldest threw a plate of pasta at me. I wept in the bathroom, pressing my hands to my belly.
Thomas would say, “Emma, you must be patient—they’re just children.” And I would look at him and think—what of me? I am carrying a child. I am the woman who chose to be your wife. But I never vowed to become a stepmother against my will.
After a month, I could endure no more. I packed my things and went to my mother’s. There, for the first time in ages, I slept soundly. I ate without interruption. I could breathe again. Thomas came a week later—angry, wounded, accusing me of betrayal. I simply closed the door. And left.
I filed for divorce. I’ve never regretted it.
Five years have passed. I have a wonderful daughter who is my whole life. I have a new partner now, one she calls Father. We are a family. And Thomas? He remained with those children. Their mother never did return. I do not regret my choice. Back then, I chose myself. I chose the child beneath my heart. I chose a life without pain or guilt. And every time I look at my daughter, I know I did the right thing.
