The ghost of the past clings to us like fog on a winter’s morning.
How weary I am of my husband’s former wife! She’s never moved on since their divorce, though she’s barely past thirty. It’s as if vengeance has rooted itself inside her. They share two children, and she wields them like weapons, determined to ruin our lives. She claims I stole her family, whispering poison, always scheming to tear us apart. How? Through the children—calling my husband daily, weeping into the phone, “The children are crying, they want Daddy home!” Her jealousy festers, souring everything.
But I never lured Andrew away. We met in Manchester, working at the same firm. I knew he was married, and we spoke only of spreadsheets and deadlines, nothing more. Back then, I was with a man who vanished for weeks on business trips. I remember that office party, partners in tow. His ex, Olivia, was ghastly—drunk, flirting with strangers, making scenes. I stood frozen, watching the spectacle.
Andrew left her soon after. Meanwhile, I upended my own life—ended things with my boyfriend, changed jobs, clawed my way up the ladder. Andrew, though he owned a flat, drifted between rentals while Olivia assumed he’d “come to his senses.” He never did. We began seeing each other, and later, married.
Three years have passed since our wedding, yet Olivia refuses to relent. Not content with her own bitterness, she drags the children into it. Emily is nine, James seven—old enough to grasp the tension. Once, Emily confessed to Andrew that her mother made her sob into the phone, rehearsed lines about missing him.
Olivia insists he sees them only at her house—never outdoors, never at ours. She parades in low-cut dresses, primping and preening, as if he might glance her way and change his mind. Futile. Andrew says the children, allegedly “pining” for him, scatter the moment he arrives—James bolts to the garden, Emily locks herself away with her mobile. Meanwhile, Olivia invents excuses to keep him: a leaky tap, a wardrobe needing shifting. She bars them from our home, calling it a “den of vice.”
One afternoon, Andrew slept after a night shift. His phone screamed with calls—Olivia, again. I picked up but stayed silent. Then a child’s voice: “Daddy, when are you coming?” I said, “Hello?” Emily faltered, passing the phone. “Mum, it’s a lady.” Olivia snarled, “Oi, put my husband on!” Stunned, I replied, *Your* husband? Don’t know him—he isn’t here.” Later, she whined to Andrew that I’d insulted her.
Then came the oddities. My boss was hounded by debt collectors swearing I owed thousands, though I’d never taken loans. A fake dating profile surfaced, photos lifted from my socials. Messages from a “secret admirer” trickled in. Andrew and I knew at once whose handiwork this was. Olivia would scorch the earth to drive us apart.
I don’t begrudge Andrew seeing his children—but not like this. They shouldn’t be pawns in her game. How do I make Olivia let us breathe?
