We had spent ten years together, yet because of my father, she took the children and left…
I’m thirty-four now. And I am alone. Entirely. My wife is gone. She took our three sons and went to her mother’s in Portsmouth. Here I sit, in the house I helped build, listening to the clock tick away the emptiness. Ten years we shared. What could possibly unravel such a life, you’d think? And yet it did. My father.
I met Emily—like so many these days—through social media. First messages, then meetings, and within months, a wedding. Everything spun fast, like a fine film. I was truly happy. A year later, our first son, William, was born. I soared with joy then. Fatigue meant nothing; troubles faded. I lived for my family.
Back then, we lived with my parents in Bristol. That was my first mistake. Father, though hardworking, always drank too much. His outbursts grew frequent—shouting, insults, humiliation. Emily endured it silently. I turned a blind eye. Convinced myself we’d endure, it would pass, she’d adjust. Mother had long given up on him, but for Emily, it was all fresh and raw.
One night, drunk and furious, he seized her wrists, bellowing nonsense. She broke free, called me in tears. I rushed over. A row erupted—shouting, chaos—and in the end, Father threw us out. Us, with an infant, onto the street. Emily didn’t argue. We left for her mother’s.
But even there, in York, there was no peace. Mother-in-law… a difficult woman. Always a new beau in tow, noise, quarrels, shouting. Emily struggled to adapt, and I felt out of place. Yet we had nowhere else. Emily was pregnant again. Then came Oliver—our second boy. Bright-eyed, always grinning. While Emily tended the children, I worked two jobs to keep us afloat.
We stayed in that flat nearly three years. Then Mother-in-law kicked us out. Blunt as you like: “I’ve no use for you. Off you go.” Emily went with me. We rented a place, breathed at last. No parents, no rules—just us, a proper family for the first time. Life was hard, yes. Money was tight. I carried the weight alone; Emily took odd jobs at home. But we were together. That was enough.
Then my mother decided to build a house in the countryside—near Lewes. Dreamed of a grand home for the whole family. She promised it would be different this time. We believed her. Invested our time, sweat, savings. Two years later, we moved in. A proper two-storey house, room for all—parents, us, the children. Peace at last. Then our third son, Henry, was born.
But peace never lasts. Emily’s mother sold her flat and left for London, to stay with Emily’s brother. On the way, she stopped by ours “for a short while.” She never left. Brought another man with her. The nitpicking, the gossip, the jabs began. Emily grew strained, snapped. My father drank again. Meanwhile, my new job took me away often—weeks at a time. Home only every fortnight. And in my absence, the house turned to madness.
Returning from one trip, I found Emily packing. Tears streamed down her face. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “Your father shouted again—said all I’m good for is bearing children. He called me… and where were you?”
I stood frozen. Then watched as my wife and our three boys walked out of our home. Left. To nowhere, it seemed. But I knew—she was going to her mother. The very woman who’d spent years turning her against me.
I call her daily. Beg her to return. Sob into the phone. Her replies are cold: “I won’t set foot in that house again. Never.” I know it’s my fault. That I never set boundaries. Never shielded her. Chose comfort—a roof, my parents—over her peace.
Now I wonder: should we rent again? Start over? Bring her and the boys back. Build from scratch, just us. No outsiders. No drink. No in-laws, no rows.
I don’t know if she’ll forgive me. If she’ll return. But I know this: I can’t lose her. Ten years—that was my life. Now it’s gone. And in this house, with her, my very air has vanished.
