We lived together for ten years, but because of my father, she took the children and left…
I’m thirty-four. And I’m alone. Completely. My wife is gone. She took our three sons and went to stay with her mother in Sheffield. And here I sit, in the house I helped build, listening to the hollow ticking of the clock. Ten years of marriage—what could possibly shatter something like that? But it did. My father.
I met Emily—yes, that’s her name now—the way most people do these days: online. Messaging at first, then dates, and within months, a wedding. It all spun like a dream, like something out of a film. I was happy. Truly happy. A year later, Oliver, our first son, was born. I was floating then, oblivious to exhaustion, blind to problems. My family was my world.
Back then, we lived with my parents in Manchester. And that was my first mistake. My father, hardworking as he was, had always drunk too much. His outbursts grew worse—shouting, insults, humiliation. Emily endured it silently. I looked the other way. I told myself we’d get through it, that she’d adjust. My mother had long since given up on him, but for Emily, it was all fresh wounds.
One night, drunk and furious, he grabbed her by the wrists, screaming nonsense. She pulled free, called me in tears. I raced home. A row erupted—shouting, accusations. And then, just like that, he threw us out. All of us. With a baby in her arms. Emily didn’t protest. We left for her mother’s place.
But there, in Birmingham, there was no peace. Her mother—difficult, to put it mildly. A revolving door of men, noise, arguments. Even Emily struggled, and for me, it was unbearable. But we had nowhere else to go. She was pregnant again. Then came Henry—bright-eyed, always grinning. While Emily cared for the boys, I worked two jobs just to keep us fed.
We lasted nearly three years in that flat. Then her mother told us to leave. Bluntly: “I don’t like you. Get out.” Emily went with me. We rented a place—finally, our own space. No parents, no rules. For the first time, we felt like a real family. It wasn’t easy. Money was tight, I carried the weight alone, Emily took odd jobs. But we were together. That was enough.
Then my mother decided to build a house—just outside Leeds. Her dream was a big home for the whole family. She promised things would be different. We believed her. Invested time, sweat, savings. Two years later, we moved in. Two floors, room for everyone. Peace, at last. Then our third son, Jacob, arrived.
But it didn’t last. Emily’s mother sold her flat, moved to London to live with her brother. “Just stopping by,” she said when she visited us. She never left. Brought another man with her. The digs, the whispers, the constant criticism started. Emily was fraying. My father started drinking again. And I? I was barely home—new job, constant travel. Back once a fortnight. Meanwhile, the house became a battleground.
I came back from one trip to find Emily packing. Tears rolling down her face. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “Your father screamed at me today. Said all I was good for was having children. Called me awful things. Where were you?”
I stood there, frozen. Then watched as my wife walked out of our home with our three boys. Gone. As if we were nothing. But I knew—she was going to her mother’s. The same woman who spent years turning her against me.
I call her every day. Beg her to come back. Break down on the phone. She answers coldly: “I’m never coming back to that house. Never.” I know it’s my fault. I should’ve set boundaries. Should’ve protected her. Chose my parents’ roof over her peace.
Now, I think—maybe another rented flat. Start over. Bring her home. Build something new, just us. No outsiders. No drink. No interfering family.
I don’t know if she’ll forgive me. If she’ll ever return. But one thing’s certain: I can’t lose her. Those ten years were my life. Now, it’s gone. And in this house, without her, I can’t even breathe.
