For months, I believed my husband was providing properly for his three daughters from his first marriage. Every time I asked about the girls, he reassured me that everything was fine and he was sending child support regularly. Something, however, nagged away at mea quiet unease that wouldnt leave until I knew the truth myself.
One Tuesday morning, while he was at work, I took an address Id found in an old divorce document, and headed off to the opposite side of town. The neighbourhood was a far cry from ours: rows of run-down terraced houses, paint peeling, front gardens choked with weeds. I felt uneasy even before I stepped out of the car.
When I knocked, a tired-looking womanhis ex-wife and the girls motheropened the door, eyeing me warily.
Yes? she asked, almost sharply.
Hello. Im Alexs wifehis current one. I think we need to talk.
Her face hardened, but after a beat, she sighed and let me in. The house was clean, but sparsely furnished. There were hardly any touches of comfort or warmth, only the barest necessities. It was clear they got by with very little.
What do you want? she said, folding her arms.
I want the truth. He tells me he sends you money every month but I needed to hear it from you.
She let out a bleak laugh.
Money? We havent seen a single pound in over a year. We survive on my cleaning wages and my mums help. Their father left us to fend for ourselves.
My stomach dropped. Right then, one of the daughters walked quietly ina little girl of about seven. My heart twisted at the sight of her: she looked exhausted, hair tangled, jumper sleeves threadbare and full of tiny holes.
Mum, Im hungry, she whispered.
Tears pricked my eyes. I lived in a spacious house with every comfort, while these children scraped by counting pennies for bread.
Where are the other two girls? I asked gently.
At school. Theyll be home in about an hour.
Right, I said firmly, standing up. Go and fetch them. Were all going shopping together.
What? No I cant let you she started.
Im not asking for permission, I cut in, calm but resolute. This isnt charity. Its what they should have had all along.
We went to the nearest shopping centre. I bought the girls clothes, shoes, jackets, and school supplies. The look on their faces when they tried everything onsmiles that lifted my spirits and broke my heart at once. I picked up essentials for their mum, too: clothes, hair products, small things that help restore dignity.
I dont know what to say, she whispered, tearful. Thank you.
No need to thank me. This is only the beginning.
When I got home that evening, he was lounging in the living room watching TV, looking as if he had not a care in the world, as if he didnt have three daughters living in hardship.
Where have you been? he asked, eyes still glued to the screen.
I went to meet your daughters. The ones you claim to support.
He blanched, jumping up from the sofa.
I can explain
I dont want explanations, I interrupted, icy with anger. I want you to pack your things. Now.
What? But this is my home!
No. Its MY house. In MY name. Bought with MY inheritance. And I want you out. Tonight.
Please, lets just talk
I said pack your things. If you wont, Ill do it for you.
I went upstairs, grabbed his suitcases, and stuffed them with his belongings while he trailed behind me pleading. But my decision was made. When Id finished, I carried everything out onto the front lawn and left it there.
Ill speak to a solicitor tomorrow, I said firmly at the door. I will make sure you provide for your childreneven if I pay every pound you owe.
He stood among his scattered things, small and powerless.
I closed the door and leant against it, trembling all over. It was the hardest, yet somehow the easiest, decision Id ever made.
Did I do the right thing, throwing him out straight away? Or should I have let him explain? Sometimes, standing by whats right means making tough callsespecially when others cant speak up for themselves. And perhaps, at the end of it all, its not comfort, but our choices in moments like these that show who we really are.
