My husband Edward has lately gotten so full of himself, strutting around like he’s the king of the world, that he’s started laying down the law—rules that turn my blood to ice. He actually threatened to divorce me unless I cut ties with my daughter, Emily, from my first marriage. Seriously? She’s my flesh and blood, my heartbeat. And he thinks he can just erase her from my life with a few cold words? I still can’t believe the man I’ve shared years with would stoop this low.
It all started a few months back. Edward always had a strong personality, but I used to admire that strength. He was confident, decisive, used to calling the shots. When we married, I thought I’d found a rock—someone who’d stand by me and embrace my family. Emily was just five then, all pigtails and scraped knees. She adored him from the start, calling him “Dad Ed,” clinging to his leg. It warmed my heart, watching them bond. But something shifted.
He began pulling away from her. At first, it was little things: no longer asking about her day at school, skipping bedtime stories, shrugging off her excited chatter about ballet class. I chalked it up to stress—his job in finance was gruelling, late nights bleeding into weekends. Then came the resentment. “You’re obsessed with her,” he spat one evening over shepherd’s pie. I froze. Obsessed? She’s my child. She lives with my mum, Margaret, in Cambridge, and I only see her on weekends. Those visits are my lifeline—proof I’m still her mum, despite the miles between us.
Then came the ultimatum. Last month, Edward leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed like a barricade, and said, “No more weekends with Emily. It’s ruining us.” Ruining *what*? It’s just the two of us—no kids of our own—and Emily’s my world. I begged him to understand—she’d already survived one broken home; she needed me. He just scoffed. “She’s nearly ten. She’ll cope. But if you keep choosing her over us, I’ll file for divorce.”
I sat there, numb. Divorce? For loving my child? The absurdity choked me. That’s when it hit: the man I leaned on didn’t see a partner in me—just someone to control. It wasn’t about Emily. It was about power.
The pieces fell into place. How he’d mocked Mum for “spoiling” Emily with too many books. How his lip curled when I signed her up for swimming lessons. That vile comment—”You need to move on from your past”—as if my daughter were some shameful secret. Back then, I’d brushed it off. Now, the truth curdled in my gut. He didn’t just dislike her. He wanted her *gone*.
I’m torn. Part of me wants to pack a bag this second—how can I stay with someone who gives such cruel demands? But fear gnaws at me. Seven years together. A mortgage. Plans for holidays in Cornwall. How do I tell Emily Mummy’s alone again? She already asks why “Dad Ed” doesn’t FaceTime anymore. How do I explain he’d rather I *forgot* her?
Mum’s voice rings in my head: *”You defend that girl, even if it costs you everything.”* She’s right. Emily isn’t just my past—she’s my future. I remember her first wobbly steps, her tiny hands kneading dough for biscuits, the way she’d whisper *”Love you to the moon”* before bed. I won’t betray that for a man who sees her as baggage.
But Edward won’t relent. Last night, his threat was sharper: *”Choose—me or her. I won’t share my wife with ghosts.”* I stayed silent. Arguing’s pointless. But my choice? It’s made. I’ll never abandon Emily. Even if it burns my marriage to ash.
Now, I plan. Maybe a solicitor’s appointment, to know my rights. Maybe brushing up my CV—I’ll need the income. I’ve even scanned rental listings near Cambridge, heart pounding. It terrifies me. Yet there’s a fierce thrill, too. Emily will *know*: Mummy’s love isn’t conditional.
Edward thinks his threats will break me. He’s wrong. I won’t live by anyone’s tyranny—not when the price is my child. I choose Emily. Even if it means starting over with nothing but a suitcase and my name. For her. For us.
