My Ex-Husband’s Son from His Second Marriage Was Diagnosed with Cancer and My Ex Asked Me for Money—But I Said No!

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 2

The son of my ex-husband and his second wife fell ill, and my ex asked me for financial help. I said absolutely not!

Im 37 and have been divorced for agesprecisely ten years now. My ex cheated on me, and frankly, Im not one to forgive such things. Hes currently shacked up with that woman.

She got pregnant, had the baby, and he married her. After all that, I had zero desire to keep in touch. So really, I havent the faintest idea what goes on in their house.

Luckily, I dont have money troublesmy salarys excellent. But a week ago, who should turn up at my door but my ex. Havent clapped eyes on him in years, so my surprise was genuine. I was dying to say something sharp, but he beat me to it. He told me his sons been diagnosed with cancer, and the treatment will cost a fortune. Apparently, he and his wife dont have anywhere near enough cash, so naturally, he came to me.

Theyd figured out Ive got money since Id just sold the house I inherited from Grandma Edith. Its uncanny, really; for him, my little windfall arrived on schedule like some cosmic convenience. Lucky chap.

I havent even decided what to do with the money. Thought I might splurge on a decent carbut Ill need to learn to drive first. Theres only so much time in the day. Anyway, its a tidy sum, and Im hardly itching to see it vanish. Call me cynical, but if I were the one in hospital, I doubt hed open his wallet.

Do you have any idea how desperate we are? he moaned. Never seemed bothered about my feelings, did he? Nor did his new wife, come to think of it. Years ago, he traded me in for her without blinking! We split everything down the middle during the divorcehe kept insisting he needed it for his lovely new family. Cheekily, he even tried to get me to pay him for the flat, though Id bought it before we married. That saved me, thank heavens. Oh, the tales of his misfortunes! Now hes parked himself in my kitchen begging for poundsgoing on about his emotional turmoil!

He offered to bring all the documentation, should I doubt him. But I don’t need any of itIm not even entertaining the thought. Promises to repay, swears up and down, talks about endless costs and rehabfrankly, Im not holding my breath for a single penny back.

Why not borrow from the bank? I asked.

I told him all this to his face. He shouted, nearly offered to collapse at my feet. I said, no needI dont fancy humiliating him. Truth is, I just dont want him in my life. He traded me in, cheated, tossed me aside. So, he can kindly hop off. He promised to come back after Id calmed down and reconsideredbut Im not losing sleep over the possibility.

Some might say I lack compassion. Maybe so. But I want to be in charge of my own money, thank you very much, and I have no intention of sharing it with anyone else. After that chat, I did feel a twinge of guilt. But helping them? Not a chanceits called poetic justice, dear, and if lifes teaching anyone a lesson, let it be them.

A Miracle Didn’t Happen Tanya left the hospital with her newborn son. There was no miracle—her parents didn’t come to meet her. The spring sun was shining, she wrapped herself in her now-loose coat, picked up her bag of clothes and documents with one hand, settled her baby more comfortably in the other, and walked away. She had nowhere to go. Her parents flatly refused to let her bring the baby home; her mum demanded she give him up. But Tanya herself had been raised in a children’s home—her own mother had abandoned her—and she’d sworn she’d never do the same to her child, no matter the cost. She’d grown up in a foster family. Her foster mum and dad were kind—almost indulgent—not having taught her self-sufficiency. Money was always tight, illness a frequent visitor. And of course, it was Tanya’s fault her son had no father; she knew that now. Her boyfriend had promised her the world, but the moment Tanya told him she was pregnant, he said he wasn’t ready for nappies and walked out of her life. She sighed. “No one’s ever ready—not the baby’s father, not my parents. Only me. I’m ready for my son.” Sitting on a bench in the spring sunlight, Tanya wondered where to go. She’d heard there were shelters for mothers like her, but she’d been too shy to ask—clinging to hope that her parents would come for her after all. They never did. Her plan was to head to a village where her grandmother lived. She hoped Gran would take her in—she could help with the garden while her child benefit lasted, then find work. Something had to go right for her, eventually. She adjusted her sleeping son, pulled out her battered old mobile to check where the village buses left from—and nearly stepped into the path of a car. The driver, a tall grey-haired man, shot from his car and shouted at Tanya for being careless: she could have killed herself and her child, and he’d have ended up in prison. Terrified, Tanya burst into tears, waking her baby, who also began to cry. The man’s tone softened; he asked where she was going. Sobbing, Tanya admitted she had no idea. “Right, hop in. You’ll come with me, calm down, and we’ll work something out. Come on, don’t stand there—your little one’s getting upset. I’m Konstantin Gregory, by the way. And you are?” “I’m Tanya.” “Get in, Tanya—let me help.” He took the young mum and her son to his spacious three-bedroom flat, giving her a room to feed the baby. There was nothing to change the baby into—Tanya asked Konstantin Gregory to buy nappies, giving him her last bit of money, but he refused. He rushed upstairs to his neighbour—a doctor—who happened to be home. After a quick phone call, she handed him a long shopping list for mother and baby. When Konstantin returned with the supplies, Tanya was drifting off to sleep, half-sitting with her son quietly awake beside her. Washing his hands, he picked up the baby so the young mum could rest. When Tanya woke and saw her boy gone, she panicked. Smiling, Konstantin Gregory brought the baby back, showing Tanya the things he’d bought. The helpful neighbour would visit soon to advise and arrange a check-up for the following day. Then he spoke: “There’s no need for you to run off to some village. Stay here with me—there’s plenty of space. I’m a widower, no kids or grandkids. My pension and wages are enough, and the loneliness is hard. I’d be glad of the company.” “Did you ever have children?” “Yes, Tanya. I had a son. I worked in the North—six months on, six months off. My son was at university; he had a girlfriend. He was going to marry her—she was expecting a baby. They waited for me to come back to have the wedding. But my son loved his motorbikes, lost control and was killed—just before I returned. I arrived for the funeral instead. My wife never got over it and passed away soon after. I lost touch with my son’s girlfriend, though I still had her photo and knew she was expecting. No matter how I tried, I never found her. Please, Tanya, stay with me. I’d like to know what a family feels like again. What’s your son’s name?” “I don’t know why, but I wanted to name him Samuel—I just like the name, even if it’s not common.” “Samuel? Tanya, that was my son’s name! I never told you that. You’ve made an old man very happy. Will you stay?” “Gladly. You see, I’m an orphan too, adopted but now unwanted because of my son. So no one came for me, and I have nowhere else. They gave me a good life but wouldn’t accept my child. I did get a flat from the council—they give one to kids leaving care—but my birth mother left me at the children’s home gates with only a chain and locket.” “Go on then, get changed—I bought you some clothes too. Then we’ll tend to the baby and the house. You need to eat well for your milk.” When Tanya emerged in her new outfit, Konstantin Gregory spotted her necklace. Was that the locket her birth mum left her with? Tanya said yes. He asked to see it. “Did you ever open it?” She said there were no fastenings. Gently, Konstantin Gregory showed her how—he’d commissioned this locket for his son. It popped open, revealing a tiny lock of hair inside. “These are my son’s. I put them there myself. So—you’re my granddaughter? It must be fate that brought us together!” “Let’s do a DNA test, just to be sure.” “Not a chance. You’re my granddaughter, that’s my great-grandson, and that’s the end of it. Besides, you look just like my son—I thought there was something familiar about you. I’ve got photos of your parents. Would you like to see them?” By Sofia Corolova