We’d been together ten years, but because of my father, she took the kids and left…
I’m thirty-four. And alone. Completely. My wife’s gone. She took our three sons and moved in with her mum in Guildford. Meanwhile, I’m sitting in the house I helped build, listening to the clock tick away the emptiness. Ten years together. You’d think nothing could tear that apart. But something did. My dad.
Irina and I met, like so many do these days, on social media. First it was messages, then dates, and a couple of months later—wedding bells. Everything spun fast, like something out of a rom-com. I was properly happy. A year later, our first son, Alfie, was born. I was over the moon. Didn’t feel tired, didn’t see the problems—I lived for my family.
Back then, we were living with my parents in Bristol. First mistake. My dad, hardworking as he was, had always been fond of a drink. His outbursts got worse—shouting, slurs, the lot. Irina bit her tongue. I turned a blind eye. Thought we’d tough it out, that she’d get used to it. My mum had long given up on him, but for Irina, it was all new and raw.
Then one night, drunk and raging, he grabbed her wrists, spouting nonsense. She broke free, called me in tears. I rushed over. Shouting match. Door slammed. And just like that, he kicked us out—me, her, and our baby. No argument. We left for her mum’s place.
But there, in Oxford, peace was just as rare. My mother-in-law… well, let’s say she’s a character. Always a new bloke around, rows at all hours. Even Irina couldn’t settle. And me? Felt like a fish out of water. But we had no choice. Irina was pregnant again. Then came Oliver—our second boy. Cheeky, bright, grinning from ear to ear. While Irina looked after the kids, I worked two jobs to keep us afloat.
We lasted nearly three years in that flat. Then her mum dropped the bomb: “I don’t like you. Clear out.” Irina came with me. We rented a place, finally breathed. No parents, no drama—just us, a proper family. Life wasn’t easy. Money was tight. I carried most of it; Irina took odd jobs from home. But we were together. That was enough.
Then my mum decided to build a house in the Cotswolds. Dreamed of a big family home. Said it’d be different this time. We bought in—time, sweat, cash. Two years later, we moved in. Two floors, plenty of space: parents on one, us on the other. Quiet, at last. Then came our third, Sebastian.
But the peace didn’t last. Irina’s mum sold her flat and moved in with her brother in London. “Just for a bit,” she said, swinging by ours. She never left. Brought some new boyfriend along. The digs, the gossip, the nagging started again. Irina frayed. My dad went back to the bottle. Meanwhile, I got a new job—traveled loads, home once a fortnight. And at home? Chaos.
Coming back from one trip, I found Irina packing. Crying. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “Your dad yelled at me—said all I’m good for is popping out kids. Called me… and where were you?”
I froze. Then watched as my wife walked out with our boys. Leaving. Like we were nothing. But I knew—she was heading to her mum’s. The same one who’d spent years poisoning her against me.
I call every day. Beg. Cry down the line. She’s ice. “I’m never coming back to that house.” I know it’s my fault. Should’ve stood up sooner. Should’ve put her first, not my parents’ roof.
Now I think—maybe rent again. Start fresh. Bring her and the boys home. Build it right this time. Just us. No drink, no in-laws, no shouting.
Dunno if she’ll forgive me. If she’ll ever come back. But I know this—I don’t want to lose her. Ten years. That was my life. Now? It’s gone. And in this house, without her, the air’s gone too.
