For months, I believed my husband was fulfilling his responsibilities to the three daughters from his previous marriage. Whenever I asked about them, he assured me that everything was fine and that he sent maintenance payments regularly. Yet deep down, something gnawed at me, pushing me to discover the truth for myself.
One Tuesday morning, while he was at work, I found an old address from his divorce papers and drove to the other side of London. The neighbourhood was run-down, a far cry from our own. As soon as I parked the car, a sense of unease washed over me.
When I knocked on the door, a tired woman opened ithis ex-wife, and the mother of his three daughters.
“Yes?” she asked, wary.
“Hello. Im Jamess wife. I think we need to talk.”
Her expression hardened, but after a short pause, she sighed and let me inside. The house was spotless, but bareno extra furniture, nothing cosy or inviting. It was clear they were getting by with very little.
“What do you want?” she asked, folding her arms.
“I want the truth. He tells me he sends money every month, but I need to hear it from you.”
She let out a bitter laugh.
“Money? We havent seen a penny for well over a year. We make do on my wages from cleaning and the help my mum gives. Their father has abandoned us completely.”
I felt the ground shift beneath me. At that moment, a little girl entered the roomabout seven years old. My heart sank at the sight of her: tired eyes, tangled hair, sleeves fraying, a few tiny holes in her jumper.
“Mum, Im hungry,” she whispered.
My eyes filled with tears. We lived in a roomy home, surrounded by comforts and unnecessary luxuries, while these girls were counting out coins just to buy bread.
“Where are the other two girls?” I asked in a hushed voice.
“At school. Theyll be back in about an hour.”
“Good,” I replied, and stood firmly. “Go and get them. Well all go shopping together.”
“What? NoI cant let you do that”
“Im not asking your permission,” I said quietly, but with resolve. “This isnt charity. This is what they should have had all along.”
We went to the nearest shopping centre. I bought the three girls clothes, shoes, jackets, and school supplies. Seeing their faces light up as they put on new things gave me a strange pangboth healing and heartbreaking at once. I also bought their mum what she most needed: some clothes, hair products, and small things that restore a touch of dignity.
“I dont know what to say,” she whispered, tears shining in her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Dont thank me. This is just the beginning.”
Later that evening, when I returned home, he was in the lounge, watching televisionrelaxed, as if he werent the father of three neglected daughters.
“Where have you been?” he asked, barely glancing away from the screen.
“I spent the day with your daughters. The ones you say you support.”
His face drained of colour. He leapt up from the sofa.
“I can explain”
“I dont want explanations,” I cut him off, feeling a cold fury rise within me. “Pack your bags. Now.”
“What? This is my home!”
“No. This is my house. In my name. Paid for with my money from my inheritance. I want you gone. Tonight.”
“Please, lets talk about this”
“I told you to pack. If you wont do it, I will.”
I went up to the bedroom, pulled out his suitcases, and began stuffing in his clothes. He followed at my heels, begging, but my mind was made up. When Id finished, I put all his things out on the front lawn.
“Ill speak to a solicitor tomorrow,” I told him at the door. “Ill make sure you do right by those girls, even if I have to pay every pound you owe myself.”
He stood among his scattered belongingsa small, helpless man.
I closed the door and leaned against it, shaking. It was, at once, the hardest and the easiest choice I had ever made.
Was I right to throw him out on the spot? Or should I have listened to his excuses first?
Sometimes, truth calls for action, not words. We cannot be blind to injustice simply because it is inconvenientdoing what is right may be difficult, but in the end, its the only way we truly grow.
