For months, I thought my husband was dutifully sending child support to the three daughters from his first marriage. Each time Id ask, he would wave his hand and assure me everything was shipshape, and that his bank transfers were as regular as the 8:15 train to Paddington. Still, something gnawed at mea little tickle of unease that refused to go away.
One Tuesday morning, while he was at work, I dug out an old divorce decree from the bottom of a dusty drawer and found the address Id been after. I hopped into my Mini and set off across town, winding up in a part of Manchester I’d only ever passed through, not stopped to admire. It was the sort of neighbourhood the estate agents would call up-and-coming, if you squint and ignore the litter and the peeling paint.
Before I even set foot out of my car, I sensed things were not looking rosy.
When I knocked on the door, a tired woman answeredAngela, his ex-wife and the mother of his daughters.
Yes? she asked, peering as if I were there to sell double glazing.
Hi, Im Grace. Im your ex-husbands current wife. We need to talk.
Her expression froze over, then she sighed and stood back so I could squeeze past. The house was spotless but rather bare. Not much in the way of furniture, and every inch radiated making do with an air of stoicism I could only admire.
What is it you want? she asked, folding her arms tightly.
I want the truth. He tells me he sends you money for the girls every month but Id like to hear it from you.
She snorteda short, mirthless laugh. Money? We havent seen a single pound from him in over a year. I clean offices for a living and Mum chips in when she can. Hes nowhere to be found, not that the girls dont notice.
I felt my stomach drop through the floorboards. Just then, a little girl wandered inmaybe seven, with tangled hair, a pale and tired face, and sleeves worn thin at the elbows.
Mum, Im hungry, she whispered.
I nearly burst into tears then and there. While I lounged in a four-bedroom semi with more throw cushions than sense, these girls were counting pennies for bread.
Where are the other two girls? I asked quietly.
At school. Theyll be back in about an hour.
Right then, I said, straightening up, get your coat and fetch them. Youre all coming shopping with me.
What? Oh no, I couldnt possibly
Im afraid Im not asking for permission, I interrupted, gently but firmly. This isnt charity. Its what they should have had all along.
That afternoon, we traipsed around the local shopping centre. I bought the girls coats, shoes, new uniforms, notebooks, and pencil cases covered in unicorns. Their faces lit up so fiercely in those new clothes, each grin both broke and mended my heart. I bought Angela some new bits, tooessentials, a decent shampoo, proper trousers, things that say Im allowed to feel nice, too.
I dont know what to say, she managed, tears trailing down her cheeks. Thank you.
Dont thank me, I said, this is just a start.
That evening when I went home, there he was in the living room, feet up, glued to the telly as if he hadnt a care or responsibility in the world.
Whereve you been? he asked, eyes not leaving the screen.
Oh, Ive just been meeting your daughters. The ones you supposedly support.
He went white as a ghost, then leapt up from the sofa.
I can explain
I dont want explanations, I cut him off, feeling an icy fury rise inside me. I want you to pack your bags. Now.
What? This is my home!
No, its MY house. In MY name. Bought with MY inheritance. I want you out. Now.
Please, lets just talk
I said pack. Or Ill do it for you.
I marched upstairs, yanked his suitcases out from under the bed, and started tossing his clothes in. He trailed after me, making feeble noises, but my mind was set. When I finished, I dumped everything right out on the front garden for the neighbourhood to see.
Im calling a solicitor tomorrow, I told him from the doorstep. One way or another, youre going to start supporting those girls, even if it comes out of my own bloody bank account.
He just stood there, adrift in a sea of shirts, looking smaller than Id ever seen him.
I closed the door and leaned against it, trembling all over. It was both the hardest andoddlythe easiest decision Ive ever made.
Did I do the right thing, turfing him out straight away, or should I have at least let him explain?
