My husband, Jonathan, has lately cast himself as the axis of the universe, convinced he has the right to dictate my life. Not just any demands, but ones that chill me to the bone. He declared he’d divorce me unless I severed ties with my daughter, Eleanor, from my first marriage. Seriously? She’s my flesh and blood, my heartbeat. Does he truly believe he can carve her out of my soul with a flick of his tongue? Even now, I can’t fathom the man I’ve shared years with sinking this low.
It crept in months ago. Jonathan always had a strong will—once, I mistook it for strength. Commanding, unyielding, a man who bends the world to his liking. When we married, I thought I’d found a steadfast partner, one who’d embrace my family. Eleanor was barely five then, quick to adore him, calling him “Daddy Jon.” I swelled with joy watching them bond. But something soured.
He withdrew from her. At first, small things: no longer asking about school, skipping their little rituals. I blamed exhaustion—his job often kept him late. Then came the irritation. “You spend too much time on her,” he snapped over supper. I froze. Eleanor is my daughter. How else should I love her? She lives with my mum, Agnes, in the next town over. Weekends are my lifeline, the only way to stay her mother despite the miles.
Then, the ultimatums. Last month, he planted himself across the kitchen table, arms folded, and declared, stone-faced, “No more weekends with Eleanor. It disrupts our family.” I thought I’d misheard. What family? It’s just us two; no children, only Eleanor, who is part of me. I pleaded—she’s survived one divorce already; she needs me. He waved it off. “She’s old enough to cope. Stop seeing her, or I’ll file for divorce.”
I sat there, thunderstruck. Divorce? For loving my child? The absurdity choked me. In that moment, the man I’d leaned on revealed himself: not a partner, but a tyrant drafting rules for my obedience. He didn’t just want less of Eleanor—he wanted her erased.
Pieces slid into place. Jonathan sneering at Mum for “spoiling” Eleanor, scowling at the ballet fees, muttering that “the past should stay buried”—meaning my first marriage, my girl. I’d shrugged it off, but now the pattern glared. He didn’t just resent her. He wished her gone.
I’m torn. Part of me wants to pack my bags tonight. How can I share a roof with a man who issues such edicts? But fear tugs back. Seven years together, a shared home, shared dreams. How do I tell Eleanor Mummy’s alone again? She already asks why Daddy Jon never calls. How do I explain he wants me to forget she exists?
Mum insists I must choose Eleanor, even at the cost of my marriage. “You’ll never forgive yourself if you pick him over her,” she said last night. And she’s right. Eleanor isn’t just my past—she’s my pulse, my duty. I remember her first gummy smile, her wobbly steps. I won’t betray her for a man who sees her as a stain.
Yet Jonathan won’t relent. Days ago, he hissed it sharper: “Me or her. I won’t live with a woman shackled to her old life.” I held my tongue—anything I said would stoke the fire. But my choice is made. I’ll never abandon Eleanor. Even if it burns my marriage to ash.
Now, I plot my next steps. A solicitor, perhaps, to navigate divorce’s wreckage. A better job, a flat nearer to Eleanor’s town. It terrifies me, yet hope flickers. I’ll make sure she knows: Mummy’s here, no matter the cost.
Jonathan thinks his threats will break me. He’s wrong. I won’t kneel to anyone’s rules, least of all those that demand I forsake my own heart. I choose Eleanor. Even if it means starting from zero, I’ll do it. For her. For us.
