I turned away from my family, and my wife was the reason
At 44, I grew up in a family most people can only dream of. Loving parents—both doctors with their own practices in a small town near Manchester—and a brother who was my best friend from childhood to adolescence. It was a picture of perfect happiness, where every day was filled with warmth and support. But everything changed when she entered my life—a woman who turned my world upside down and eventually tore it apart.
I met Lucy during my freshman year at university. She was my complete opposite, like night and day. Her childhood was spent in foster care, and when she was 11, she was adopted. But the happiness was short-lived—her adoptive parents divorced, and Lucy stayed with her mother, who soon succumbed to alcohol. The connection with her father was nearly severed. Her life was a struggle, but she persevered—with a steely will and determination to escape her past. After school, she entered university, paying for it herself. She worked two part-time jobs, studied late into the night, and graduated with top honors. Her strength mesmerized me.
Our relationship began like a fairy tale, until I brought her to my family home. Lucy, having grown up in poverty, looked at our cozy house with thinly veiled disdain. She kept silent then, but later, during an argument, she shouted that we were rich snobs living in our own fantasy world. Her words hit me like lightning, but I swallowed the insult, attributing it to her difficult past. We survived that crisis, but the rift had already started to form.
Before our wedding, I mentioned that my parents wanted to cover the costs. Lucy reacted like a fury: “I won’t be beholden to them!” Her voice trembled with anger, and I didn’t know how to calm her. I secretly spoke to my parents, and they, wanting to avoid conflicts, quietly gave me the money. I didn’t tell Lucy anything. The wedding was splendid, and she felt proud, believing we had done everything ourselves, proving our independence to the world. I kept silent, fearing to shatter her illusion.
When we found out we were expecting a daughter, my parents glowed with happiness. One day they brought over baby clothes—tiny dresses and booties. I braced for a storm, but Lucy unexpectedly smiled and thanked them. Yet, as soon as the door closed behind them, she said coldly, “No more handouts from your parents.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell my mom and dad—their joy for their granddaughter was so genuine that I didn’t want to dampen it. When they asked what we needed, I lied, saying we had everything already.
But the storm did come before the birth. My parents showed up unannounced with a brand new pram—the expensive one we had seen in the shop. Lucy turned pale: “It’s an unnecessary luxury, take it back!” Words were exchanged, and an argument ensued. She yelled, insulted them, while I stood, stunned by it all. The visit ended in a row, after which her labor started prematurely. And who did she blame? My parents! She said it was their fault, that they caused her stress. For the first time, I stood up: “You’re wrong, they are not to blame!”
Then she gave me an ultimatum—one as frightening as a sentence. Either I stay with her and our daughter, completely severing ties with my parents and brother, taking not a penny from them, or we divorce—and I’ll never see my little girl again. My heart was torn to pieces, blood pounding in my temples. What was I to do? I chose my wife and daughter, turning away from the family that had given me everything. I refused the love of my parents and the inheritance that could have provided us a comfortable life. We moved to another town, far from the past.
For twelve years, I haven’t heard my mother’s voice, haven’t hugged my father, haven’t joked with my brother. I work as a teacher, and every month’s end is a scramble to make ends meet. We live modestly, almost poorly, because Lucy hates accepting help. I look at her and don’t recognize the girl who once inspired me with her resilience. Now I only see anger—she hates the world, blames everyone for her life not being like others’. What I once loved in her has turned into a revulsion gnawing at me.
I’m contemplating divorce. The children have grown up, and I hope they understand me, understand why I can’t live like this any longer. I was wrong about Lucy—cruelly, irrevocably. Her pride, which once seemed like strength, turned out to be a poison that tainted everything around. And now I stand amid the ruins of my life, asking myself: how could I have been so blind? How did I sacrifice my family for a woman who resents even the shadow of happiness?”
