*The Shadow of the Past*
Honestly, I’ve had it up to *here* with my husband’s ex-wife. She’s barely thirty-five and still hasn’t moved on since their divorce—utterly consumed with spite. They share two kids, and she weaponises them like tiny little wrecking balls aimed at our happiness. “You stole my family!” she hisses, as if I’m some villain from a daytime soap. Her latest trick? The daily dramatics: *“The children are crying for you! Come home!”*—as if our flat in Manchester is a dungeon and not, you know, a perfectly normal semi-detached.
For the record, I didn’t “steal” James. We met properly *after* his marriage imploded—back when we both worked at a marketing firm in Birmingham. Yes, I knew he was married, but honestly, it was all spreadsheets and coffee runs until *that* office party. His ex, *Chloe*, turned up absolutely plastered, draped over some bloke from Accounts, then sobbed into the buffet. Meanwhile, my then-boyfriend was off “finding himself” in Ibiza (again). Hardly the stuff of grand romance.
James left her soon after. I, meanwhile, got a promotion, dumped the human disappearing act, and—two years later—married the man. Cue Chloe’s endless encore. Three years on, she’s still staging performances:
1) **The Home Visit Farce**: The kids—Emily, 9, and Oliver, 7—*must* see Dad at *her* house. Never the park. *Certainly* not ours (“that *hovel*,” she calls it, despite the new Ikea sofa). She lurks in low-cut tops, demanding he fix shelves while the kids vanish—Oliver to kick a ball outside, Emily to TikTok oblivion.
2) **The Phantom Crisis**: Once, when James was asleep after night shifts, his phone *exploded*. Emily’s whispered *“Daddy, when are you coming?”* was my tip-off. I answered. Silence. Then: *“Mum, there’s a lady here.”* *Cue Chloe*: “PUT MY *HUSBAND* ON.” Me, baffled: “Your *what*? Must be a wrong number.” Later, James got an earful about my *“disrespect”*—as if answering a phone is a war crime.
Then came the *real* theatrics:
– My boss got harassed by “debt collectors” (I’ve never missed a Pret sandwich, let alone a loan).
– A fake dating profile popped up with my face, flooded with messages from *“Adrian,”* a “woodworking enthusiast” (how *specific*).
We *know* who’s directing this production. But the kids aren’t props—they’re catching on. Emily once admitted Chloe *made* her cry for the phone act.
I’d never keep James from them, but *this*? It’s exhausting. How do you reason with someone who thinks life’s a *EastEnders* audition? A restraining order? Hypnosis? A *very* long holiday in Skegness?
(If anyone’s got ideas, I’ll trade you for a bottle of wine and the rest of my sanity.)
