Ill admit it: I felt oddly lighter when I heard my ex-husband had lost everything. Its not my proudest moment, I grant you, but at least Im honest.
We were married for fifteen years. When we tied the knot, he already had his own house, a tidy life, and a collection of beige socks that would make Marks & Spencer jealous. We moved in together with my sonId become a mum rather earlyand he was upfront from the start about one thing: he couldnt have children. I knew it, I accepted it, and I never held it against him. To his credit, he treated my son like his ownschool runs, pep talks, buying him new trainers. I thought Id made the right choice.
I never checked any bills or paperwork, not because I couldnt, but because I trusted him. He always said, Its ours, Everything I have is for the family. The house, the sofa, the weekly shop at Tesco Years later, he bought a shiny new car and said, You can take the old one. It wasnt exactly the Queens carriagejust a trusty, slightly battered Ford. Still, it was my first car. I had no idea who it belonged to; he handed me the keys and I accepted them without question.
Then one day, he packed his bags and leftwith another woman. Cue the usual heartbreak, insomnia, endless cups of tea, and questioning everything I thought Id built. The divorce papers came, the awkward chats, the arguments. Thats when I started to realise that our marriage wasnt nearly as ours as Id believed.
Turns out, absolutely everything was in his mothers name. The house wed lived in for a decade and a half, his so-called pride-and-joy business, the accountseven the old Ford I thought was mine. Legally, not a single thing belonged to him or me. I was left with a paltry settlement, barely enough for a round at the pub. I wasnt allowed to stay in the house Id called home for half my life, because apparently he had it before we got married. I left with a suitcase, my son, and a list of questions that no one could answer.
At forty, I had to start from scratch. I work in health and social care, but hadnt done a shift in ages. I landed a job looking after an elderly gentleman in his home. Long hours, backache, and more blisters than dignity. Some evenings, Id flop onto the spare bed at my mums house and wonder how I could have been so gullible. But slowly, I got back on my feet. Two years later, I managed to buy a small flat. Im still paying it off, but its mine. Every payment makes me feel a little more human.
Then, out of the blue, I heard what had happened to him. His mother passed away, and with her went everything he had counted as his own. According to the inheritance laws, all properties were divided among the family. (Surprise: he had siblings Id never even heard of.) He tried to prove things were rightfully his, but legally, he didnt have a leg to stand on. He ended up with no home, no business, no careven his precious socks werent safe.
When people told me, I fell silent. And then I felt something unexpectednot joy, not schadenfreude, just relief. The scales had finally balanced. Its not pretty to admit, but I know what its like to lose everything simply because you trusted too much.
So, tell meam I a bad person for moving on?
