The Day Our Dreams Were Sold: When My Husband Spent Our Family’s Savings on His Ex—and Chose His Son Over Us

Author Walton MerrittReading 8 minViews 1

Fifty thousand, Andrew. Fifty. On top of the thirty grand in child support.

Sarah tossed her mobile onto the kitchen table so hard that it nearly slid across the worktop and fell to the floor. Andrew managed to catch it right at the edge, which only made her angrier.

Olivia needed trainers and kit for her football club, Andrew placed the phone face down, as if hiding evidence. Shes growing, Sarah. Kids have a habit of doing that.
Trainers for fifty quid? What is she, signing for Chelsea?
There was a backpack too. And a coat. Autumns around the corner.

Sarah turned away. She couldnt stand the sight of her husband just then. She knew about these transfers. Every month, without fail. Always the same justification: child, duty, responsibility. Nice words, but the reality was clearmoney draining from their shared budget into someone elses pocket.

I do love her, Andrew stepped closer, pausing a step behind her. Shes my daughter. I cant just…
Did I tell you to abandon your child? Im asking why you spend so much above maintenance. Thirty thousand pounds a monthisnt that enough? Doesnt Emma work?
She does.
So whats the problem, then?

Andrew said nothing. Sarah recognised that silence nowit meant he didnt have an answer. Just the usual habit of agreeing, helping, never arguing. Being the good ex-husband, the good dad, the good bloke. At their expense.

She turned, leaning against the edge of the sink.

I keep track, you know? In my head. How much goes out every month. Want to know the yearly total?
No.
Nearly six hundred thousand. And thats without todays fifty.

Andrew rubbed his forehead, another of his familiar gesturesnot now. But Sarah couldnt stop. Shed stayed silent too long, playing the understanding wife.

We made plans for a holiday, remember? You promisedNovember, the seaside, two weeks. Wheres the money now?
I know, Sarah. But Emma rang, said it was urgent…
Of course she did. Its always Emma. Always something urgent.

Andrew slumped onto a stool, elbows on knees, and in that moment Sarah saw how genuinely tired he looked. Exhausted, not from work, but from the endless tug-of-war between two women. Something flickered inside herpity maybebut she suppressed it.

She wants to buy a flat, Andrew said quietly, still looking down. So Olivia can have her own room.
Wait, what sort of flat?
Bigger. Theyre in a studio now, you know. Its cramped.
Its cramped? Whos paying for it?

Andrew finally met her eyes, and guilt flashed across his face. Sarahs insides chilled.

You arent about to…
She asked for help with the deposit. Im just considering it.
Considering? Andrew, thats… thats massive! Where would you get it?
Weve saved a bit. For the car.
WE saved! For OUR car! For our family!

Her voice rose in a shout. Sarah clamped a hand over her mouth, trying to force the words back. Too latethey hung in the space between them.

Andrew stood, walked to the window, shoved his hands into his pockets.

Olivias my family too. I cant pretend she doesnt exist.
No ones asking you to! But theres child supportlegal, official. Everything else is your generosity. And mine. Its our money.
I know.
But it doesnt stop you.

Silence. Somewhere next door a TV came onmuffled voices, laughter from some comedy. A bizarre backdrop for their conversation.
Sarah sank into her usual seat by the table. Her thoughts churnedhurt, anger, confusionbut she forced her voice steady.

How much does she want?
Two hundred thousand for the deposit.

The figure hung between them. Sarah laugheda short, humourless burst.

Two hundred grand. Thats everything we have.
I know.
You seriously want to give her all that money?
Its for my daughter.
Im against it. Its my money too, in case youve forgotten.

Andrew said nothing. That was the end of the discussion.

A week later, Sarah opened the banking app just to check if her salary had arrived. She scrolled down to their savings accountthe one theyd been building for three years.

Balance: forty-seven thousand five hundred and two pounds…

She blinked. Refreshed the app. Checked again.

Forty-seven thousand instead of two hundred thousand…

Her phone slipped from her hand onto the carpet.

Sarah stood in the middle of the room, unable to move. Two hundred thousand pounds. Three years saving, passing up holidays, second-guessing every big purchase. Nowforty-seven thousand. The scraps left of their shared future. She picked up her phone and opened the transaction history. Transfer to Emma Charlotte Baker.

He hadnt even tried to hide it.

Andrew was on the sofa with his laptop as she burst into the room. He looked up, started to smilethen saw her face and the smile vanished.

You blew all our savings on your ex?!

Her voice cracked with fury, and Sarah didnt care. Let the neighbours hear, let the whole block hear.

Sarah, wait, I can explain…
Explain?! Two hundred thousand pounds, Andrew! Two! That was our money!

He set the laptop aside and stood slowly. His eyes showed no guilt, just an odd stubbornness.

Its for Olivia. She deserves a proper room, proper space. Im her father, I have to…
You have responsibilities to THIS family! To ME! Not a woman you divorced four years ago!
Shes my childs mum.
And what am I?!
Youre my wife. I love you. But Olivia
Stop hiding behind Olivia! Sarah stepped closer and Andrew backed away. You bought Emma a flat. Not your daughterEmma! The deedll be in her name, right? Shell live there, do what she likes, and if she fancies, shell sell it and splash the money on whatever. Whats that got to do with your child?

Andrew opened his mouth, closed it. Nothing to say. Of coursebecause she was right, and he knew it.

Youre still in love with her, Sarah whispered. Thats the problem. Its not about Olivia. You just cant say no to Emma. You never could.
Thats not true.
Then why? Why didnt you ask me? Why decide for both of us?

Andrew stepped forward, hands outstretched:

Sarah, please. Can we talk calmly? I get that youre angry, but it really is for my daughter…

Sarah pulled away from his touch.

Dont touch me.

Three words. And just like that, there was a wall between them. Andrew stalled with his arms half-raised, and finally something like understanding dawned on his face. Too late.

I cant do this, Sarah walked past him to the bedroom, found her bag. I cant be with someone who makes decisions behind my back. Who lies. Who…
I didnt lie!
You didnt tell me. Same thing.

She stuffed her essentials in the bagclothes, documents, phone charger. Andrew watched from the doorway, helpless as his life fell apart.

Where are you going?
Mums.
How long for?

Sarah zipped the bag, slung it on her shoulder. Looked at her husbandthe grown man with lost eyes who still hadnt grasped what hed done.

I dont know, Andrew. HonestlyI dont know.

Three days at her mums went strangely. The first day, Sarah just lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. Her mum brought tea, never asked a thing, just stroked her hair like she did when Sarah was little. Day two, the anger camesharp, clear, almost freeing. Day threeclarity. She rang an old solicitor friend.

I want a divorce. Yes, Im sure. No, theres no chance of reconciliation.

Andrew called every day, sending long, rambling texts full of explanations and apologies. Sarah read them, but replied to none. What was there to say? Hed made his decision. Now she was making hers.

A month later, Sarah moved into a rented studio at the other side of London. Small, with a view of the railway yards, but hers. All hers. She picked the curtains, arranged the furniture, decided how to spend her paycheque.

The divorce was quickAndrew didnt protest, signed everything without argument. Maybe hed hoped shed change her mind. She didnt.

Sometimes, in the evenings, Sarah would sit by the window and marvel at how odd life is. Just three years ago shed thought shed found her person. Now she was alone in a quiet flat. And, curiously, it didnt frighten her.

Sarah opened her notebook, wrote: zero. The starting point. Next to it, she listed her monthly plan, six months, her year. How much to save, where to invest, what courses to take to advance her career.

For the first time in ages, her future depended only on her.

“You Don’t Have a Family, Just Let Your Sister Have the House—She Needs It More Now,” My Mum Told Me. “It’s Easier for You; Your Sister Has a Big Family, Try to Understand.” “Why Are You So Moody?” My Sister Sat Next to Me on the Sofa, Cradling a Glass of Juice. The Kids Bustled Around the Table, Her Husband Waving a Fork with Cake While Chatting to His Mother-in-Law. “I’m Fine,” I Looked Away. “Just Tired. Work Was a Nightmare Today.” She Smiled, Tucking a Strand of Hair Behind Her Ear. “I’ve Been Meaning to Talk to You—About Dad’s House.” “I’m Listening.” She Leaned in Closer, Dropping Her Voice. “We’ve Been Thinking… Why Do You Two Even Need That House? It’s Just the Two of You and You Have a Flat. We’re Crammed into a Two-Bed Rental with Three Kids. If We Move In—Fresh Air, a Garden, Room for Everyone.” I Stayed Quiet, Watching My Niece Blow Out Her Birthday Candles. Six Years Old—the Eldest of Three. “You Don’t Really Need the House,” She Continued. “It’s Just More Expenses. Leaking Roof, Crooked Fence, Never-Ending Repairs.” “And What Will You Do About That?” I Thought, But Kept It to Myself. “Mum Thinks It’s Sensible Too,” She Added. “We’re Not Asking for a Gift, Just Step Back from Your Share. We’ll Sort It Out Later.” I Nodded, Though Something Tightened Inside. On the Way Home My Husband Drove in Silence. “What’s Going On?” “They Want Me to Give Up My Share of the House.” “You Mean—Give It Away?” “Yes. Apparently They Need It More. And We ‘Have Everything’.” “Everything?” He Smirked. “Our Tiny Flat with a Mortgage?” The Next Day Mum Called. “Have You Thought About It?” “What’s to Think About? Half the House Is Mine.” “You’re Always Talking About Rights,” She Snapped. “What About Family? They Have Three Kids. You’re Alone.” “Our Flat Is Mortgaged. Ten More Years to Pay.” “They Don’t Even Have That.” “I Cared for Dad Those Last Months. The Hospitals, the Prescriptions. My Sister Came Twice.” “You’re the Older One. You Should Understand. You’re Free.” Free. The Word Stung. That Night I Sat in the Kitchen With Tea. “She’s Pushing for It Too?” My Husband Asked. “Yes.” The Next Day I Met a Friend. “When Was the Last Time Your Sister Helped You?” She Asked. I Had No Answer. “Do They Know How Much You’ve Spent on IVF?” “No.” “Almost a Million. And Not One Pregnancy. Still They Think You Have It Easy.” I Decided to Visit the House. I Went Alone. Overgrown Garden. Squeaking Gates. The Smell of Dust and Memories. I Found Dad’s Notebook—Plans for Repairs in His Handwriting. He’d Planned. Time Ran Out. The Apple Tree We’d Planted Together When I Was Little. This House Wasn’t Just Property. It Was Memory. So When Mum Came and Said, “You Don’t Have a Family, It’s Easier for You…” I Didn’t Swallow It Down. “Three Rounds of IVF. Three.” And For the First Time, I Said: “The House Is Mine. I’m Not Giving It Away.” Silence Followed. But It Wasn’t Empty—It Felt Freeing. Spring Came Early. The Neighbour Said, “He Was Just Waiting for You.” I Sat on the Porch, Cradling a Mug of Tea, Dad’s Jumper Around My Shoulders, Apple Tree Before Me. This Was My Home. Not Because I Gave In. But Because It Was My Right.

I Know Best — What is going on? — Daniel crouched wearily in front of his daughter, eyeing the pink patches on her cheeks. — Again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and strangely grown-up. She was used to these examinations, her parents’ worried faces, endless creams and tablets. Maria came over and knelt next to her husband, gently brushing a lock of hair from Sophie’s face. — These medicines aren’t working. At all. It’s like giving her water. And the doctors at the surgery… they’re not doctors, just… who knows what. Third time they’ve changed her treatment plan — no effect. Daniel stood, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Outside, the sky was grey, and the day showed every sign of being as bleak as the last. They packed up quickly — wrapped Sophie in her warm coat, and half an hour later, sat in his mother’s flat. Olga fussed, shook her head, stroked her granddaughter’s back. — So little, and already so much medicine. What a strain on her body, — she sat Sophie on her lap, and the little girl leaned against her, comforted. — It’s awful to see. — We’d love not to give her anything, — Maria perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers clenched. — But the allergy won’t go away. We’ve removed everything. Seriously, everything. She’s only eating the most basic foods — and she’s still covered in a rash. — What do the doctors say? — Nothing concrete. They can’t pinpoint it. More tests, more samples — but the only outcome… — Maria waved her hand. — Just her cheeks. Olga sighed and straightened Sophie’s collar. — Maybe she’ll grow out of it. Children do sometimes. For now, it’s just… not encouraging. Daniel looked at his daughter. Small and thin, her big, watchful eyes. He stroked her head and a memory of his own childhood floated up — sneaking pies that his mum baked on Saturdays, pleading for sweets, scooping jam right out of the jar. And his daughter… Boiled vegetables. Boiled meat. Water. No fruit, no sweets, no normal kid food. Four years old, on a stricter diet than many ulcer patients. — We don’t know what else to cut, — he said quietly. — Her diet is almost nothing. The drive home was silent. Sophie dozed in the back seat, and Daniel kept glancing at her in the mirror. Sleeping at last. At least, not scratching. — Mum called, — Maria spoke up. — She wants us to bring Sophie round next weekend. She’s got tickets for the puppet theatre, wants to take her. — Theatre? — Daniel changed gear. — That’s good. Distraction is good. — That’s what I thought. It’ll do her good. Saturday, Daniel parked up at his mother-in-law’s house and lifted Sophie from her car seat. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes with her fists — early wake-up, still tired. He scooped her up, and she nestled her nose in his neck, warm and light as a sparrow. Patricia drifted out onto the porch in a flowery housecoat, hands outstretched as if greeting a shipwreck survivor. — Oh, my darling girl, my sunshine! — She gathered Sophie to her enormous bosom. — So pale, so thin. You’ve run her ragged with your diets, poor child is suffering. Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets, reining in his irritation. Same old story, every time. — It’s for her own good. Not for fun, believe me. — For her good? — Patricia pursed her lips, glancing at her granddaughter as if returning from a prison camp. — Nothing but skin and bone. She’s supposed to be growing, and you’re starving her! She carried Sophie inside without looking back, and the door clicked shut. Daniel stood on the steps, something nagging at the edge of his mind, just out of reach. He rubbed his forehead, listened to the quiet of the unfamiliar garden, then headed for the car. A childless weekend felt odd, almost forgotten. Saturday, he and Maria wandered the supermarket, pushing a trolley, stocking up for the week. At home, Daniel finally fixed the leaking bathroom tap, Maria cleared out the cupboards and packed old clothes for donation. Everyday chores, but the flat felt wrong, too empty without a child’s voice. That night, they ordered pizza — the kind with mozzarella and basil Sophie wasn’t allowed. Opened a bottle of red wine. Sat in the kitchen talking about nothing much — like they hadn’t done in ages: work, holiday plans, that unfinished home decorating. — It’s nice, — Maria began, then hesitated, biting her lip. — I mean… you know. Just peaceful. Quiet. — I know, — Daniel covered her hand with his. — I miss her too. But a break isn’t unwelcome. On Sunday, he drove to collect Sophie just before dusk. The setting sun bathed the street deep orange; his mother-in-law’s house nestled behind old apple trees, almost inviting in the golden light. Daniel got out, pushed the garden gate — hinges squeaked — and stopped mid-stride. On the porch was his daughter, with Patricia seated beside her, face beaming. In her hand was a pie. Large, golden, oily. And Sophie was eating it. Cheeks messy, crumbs on her chin, and her eyes — shining, happier than he’d seen her in months. Daniel stared for a moment, then heat and anger surged in his chest. He strode forward and snatched the pie from Patricia. — What the hell is this?! Patricia recoiled, blushing crimson from her throat to her hairline. She flapped her hands, trying to ward off his anger. — It’s just a tiny bit! No harm done, it’s just a pie… Daniel wasn’t listening. He scooped Sophie up — she clung to his jacket, frightened and quiet — and carried her to the car. Strapped her in, hands shaking with fury. Sophie watched him with wide eyes, lips trembling — near tears. — It’s alright, sweetheart, — he stroked her head, voice steady as he could manage. — Wait here a moment. Daddy’ll be right back. He shut the door and marched back to the house. Patricia still waited on the porch, fiddling with her robe, splotched with red. — Daniel, you don’t understand… — I don’t understand?! — he stepped closer, temper unleashed. — Six months! Six months we didn’t know what was happening with our daughter! Doctors, hospital visits, allergen tests — do you know how much that all cost? How many sleepless nights? Patricia shrank back. — I just wanted to help… — Help?! — Daniel stepped in. — She lived off water and boiled chicken! We cut everything out! And you sneak her fried pies?! — I was building up her immunity! — Patricia suddenly squared up. — I gave her tiny bits so she’d get used to it. Another week or two and she would’ve been fine, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing, I raised three children! Daniel stared at her, not recognising this person. The woman he tolerated for years, to keep peace for his wife — poisoning his child, believing she knew better than doctors. — Three children, — he said quietly, watching Patricia pale. — So what? Every child is different. And Sophie isn’t yours, she’s mine. You won’t see her again. — What?! — Patricia clutched the rail. — You can’t do that! — I can. He turned and walked to the car. Her shouts echoed behind him, but Daniel didn’t look back. Started the engine, saw her waving in the mirror, pressed the pedal. At home, Maria was waiting in the hall. One look at her husband’s face, their tearful child, and she understood instantly. — What happened? Daniel told her. Brief, guarded. Emotionless — he’d left that behind in Patricia’s garden. Maria listened, her face hardening every second. Then she grabbed her phone. — Mum. Yes, Daniel told me. How could you?! Daniel took Sophie to the bathroom — washed off the pie and tears. Behind the door, Maria’s angry, unfamiliar voice rang out; he’d never heard her speak to her mother that way. At the end: “Until we sort out her allergy — you’re not seeing Sophie.” Two months later… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was now a tradition. On the table: sponge cake with cream and strawberries. Sophie tucked in with a big spoon, smearing cream over her cheeks. Not a spot in sight. — Who’d have guessed, — Olga shook her head. — Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy. — Doctor said one in a thousand kids, — Maria spread butter on her bread. — Swapped to olive oil, rash gone in two weeks. Daniel watched his daughter, couldn’t look away. Pink cheeks, bright eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, eating proper food at last. Cake, biscuits, all the treats — as long as sunflower oil was avoided. Relations with Patricia stayed chilly. She rang, apologised, cried. Maria kept her replies short and dry. Daniel didn’t speak to her at all. Sophie reached for more cake, Olga pushed the plate nearer. — Go on, love. Eat up, enjoy. Daniel leaned back in his chair. Rain drummed on the window, but indoors was warm and fragrant with baking. His daughter was better; nothing else mattered.