The Day I Went to Get Divorced Dressed as a Bride: How Turning Up to Court in My Wedding Dress—and My Husband in His Suit—Made Everyone Stop and Ask If This Was Really the End

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 3 minViews 1

The day I went to get divorced dressed as a bride.

When my husband told me he wanted a divorce, I walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out my wedding dress.

What on earth are you doing? he asked, looking thoroughly alarmed.

Im wearing this to court, I replied, giving the dress a good shake to get rid of the dust.

Youve lost your mind! You cant turn up to your own divorce dressed as a bride!

Oh, but I can. And youll be in your wedding suit. If thats the suit you wore when you vowed eternal love to me, its the one you can wear when promising me a forever goodbye.

I watched him try to come up with a decent counterargument, but nothing came out. Twenty minutes later, he was rummaging in the bottom of the wardrobe muttering to himself while searching for his suit.

When we turned up at the courthouse, security just stood there frozen in disbelief. A woman called out, Congratulations! while another nudged her and muttered, Dont be daft, theyre here for a divorce!

The judge nearly tumbled off his chair when he caught sight of us. There I was, in full white dress, veil and all. He was in his tuxedo, bowtie, and shoes polished within an inch of their lives.

Madam, said the judge, struggling to keep a straight face, may I ask why youve come dressed as a bride?

Because, Your Honour, I replied, trying to hold my head high, this man promised me till death us do part in this very get-up. Since death hasnt parted us yet, but he wants to tear up the contract, I think he should do it looking at me just as he did when he lied in the first place.

My husband glanced over, his eyes glistening.

I never lied to you. I truly loved you that day.

And today? I asked, feeling my voice wobble.

The judge cleared his throat.

Ill tell you what. Take a half-hour break. Go outside, take a walk, have a chat. If you both come back still dressed like this and still certain you want to go through with it, Ill continue. But something tells me a couple who goes this far still has plenty to talk about.

We found ourselves stepping out into the corridor. He gently straightened my veil, which had slipped askew.

You look beautiful, he said. Exactly how you did that day.

And you look rather dashing yourself, I admitted. Even though youre a complete fool.

We stood, dressed for a wedding, in the middle of the courthouse, utterly lost.

What if he suggested, timidly, instead of splitting up, we went and got ourselves some wedding cake and remembered why we ever got married in the first place?

Maybe true love really is dressing up for your divorce just as you did for your wedding… or perhaps were simply two hopelessly dramatic souls who never learned to do anything by halves.

I’ll Get Married, But Definitely Not to This Handsome Guy – Yes, He’s Wonderful in Every Way, But He’s Just Not for Me “Again Mum’s come home with her boyfriend—and some other bloke. Already drunk,” Irina squeezed herself into the corner behind the cabinet. “Nowhere to hide, and it’s snowing outside. I’m so sick of this. In summer I’ll finish my GCSEs and move to town. I’ll get into a teacher’s college and become a teacher. It’s only six miles to the city, but I’ll live in student housing.” Mum and the guests settled in the kitchen. There was the glug of liquid being poured into a glass, the smell of sausage. Irina swallowed. “Wait a minute, you!” Mum’s voice rang out. “Why are you playing hard to get?” “There’s two of you…” “Not their first time in a group,” came Mikhail, Mum’s boyfriend. There was a crash of falling dishes. Scraping, panting. Irina pressed herself further into the corner. The noise suddenly died down. “Listen, Nikita, she’s asleep,” Mum’s boyfriend called out. “You said she’s a good girl, but I’ve got a thing for her…” “Listen, she’s got a daughter…” “What daughter?” “Ira, she’s grown up. Probably hiding in her room.” “Go get her,” Nikita said gleefully. “Ira, where are you?” Mum’s boyfriend entered the room, spotted Irina, and grinned. “Come on, sit with us!” “I’m fine here.” “Don’t be shy.” Mikhail tried to hug her. Irina grabbed a vase from the cabinet and brought it down on Mum’s boyfriend’s head. There was the crash of glass. Irina broke free and ran out of the room. “Get her!” Mikhail shouted. But Irina was already at the front door. No time to grab shoes, so she sprinted into the snow in just socks, old shorts, and a t-shirt. The men chased after her. The village street was empty. Where do you run at night in the snow? She heard shouts behind her. At the huge house she passed, a dog barked—a man’s voice shouted at the dog. Irina rushed to the gate and knocked. A man in his forties opened the door. “Please help me,” she said softly, making eyes at him. “Come in!” He tugged her inside and shut the door. “Oleg, who is it?” A woman stepped onto the porch. “Here,” Oleg nodded towards Irina. “She’s being chased by some blokes.” “Quick, get inside!” The woman grabbed Irina’s hand. “You can tell us everything.” “Ira, come out and don’t cause trouble!” Mikhail’s voice rang out. “Oleg, don’t get involved!” the woman shouted. “Get in here!” The shouts from the street, barking from the yard. “We need to call the police,” the woman pulled out her phone. “Polina, don’t. I’ll handle it myself. They’re locals.” “How do you plan on handling them?” “Nicely. Calm the girl down!” Oleg grabbed a carrier bag, went to the fridge, and dropped in a bottle and a chunk of sausage. Out in the yard, he patted the dog and they stepped into the street. Mikhail ran toward him. “Hand over Ira!” “Here, have these and go home.” The men opened the bag, smiled at the bottle and sausage, nodded, and left. *** “Alright. I’m Polina Sergeievna,” the woman said, putting the kettle on. “Come sit, tell us who you are and what happened.” “I’m Irina,” she started, teeth chattering. “I live on this street, at the end.” “You’re Kira’s daughter?” “Yes.” “We haven’t lived here long, but we’ve heard about your mum.” Irina lowered her head and sobbed. “There, there—don’t cry!” the woman said, pressing Irina to her chest. Irina clung to her, sobbing harder. “Alright, alright! Let’s have some tea.” The man returned. “All sorted.” “What do we do about this pretty girl?” Polina smiled at Irina. “Let’s talk tomorrow! Tea first, and she needs a bath.” “Hungry?” Polina set a mug before Irina, smiling. “I can see you are.” Sandwiches and leftover cake appeared on the table. “Eat, eat!” Oleg smiled too as Irina looked longingly at the food. They didn’t question Irina further, trying not to make her uncomfortable. After dinner, Polina led Irina to the bathroom. “Wash up, put this dressing gown on!” *** All Irina wanted was not to be thrown out into the street tonight. How lovely the warm bath felt, compared to the freezing outside. But she knew she had to get out—the hosts were waiting. She emerged. The couple sat together on the sofa. She smiled apologetically. “Thank you!” “Listen, Irina,” Polina began. “From what I see, no one’s coming to look for you. You don’t want to go home.” Irina lowered her eyes. “Tomorrow morning, we have to drive out early…” “I understand,” Irina bowed lower. “You’ll be alone. Don’t open to anyone! Our Jack won’t let anyone in the yard. Got it?” “Yes!” Irina said, unable to hide her emotion. “You can make borscht while we’re gone,” Oleg smiled slyly. “Can you?” “I can,” Irina said quickly, still afraid she’d be tossed out. “I’m good at cooking. And I can clean too.” “Clean downstairs if you like,” Polina agreed. *** She woke with the hosts in the morning, lying still in bed, always worrying she’d be kicked out. The car made noise in the yard, then it went quiet. She got up, washed, found hot tea, bread, sausage, cheese, and pork ribs waiting. She ate, cleaned the table, wiped everything down, scrubbed the floors. In the hallway she spotted a vacuum, turned it on, and started cleaning. Just as she turned it off… “And what’s all this about?” came a voice behind her. She spun around. A tall, handsome boy of about eighteen, curiosity gleaming in his brown eyes. “I’m cleaning,” Irina mumbled. “Who are you?” “Well…” The boy shook his head, pulled out his phone. “Mum, I’m home. Who’s this?” “Son, let this girl stay for a while.” “Fine by me.” He put the phone away, eyed Irina up and down, and headed to the kitchen. “Would you like tea?” she asked. “I’ll sort myself out.” *** Irina put away the vacuum, started dusting, listening for every noise from the kitchen. The boy ate, went to the bathroom. Emerged freshly shaved, smelling of aftershave. “Oi, mate, give us another bottle!” yelled someone outside. “What’s this?” The boy went to the window. “Don’t open for them!” Irina cried in panic. He looked at her with interest, then smiled for some reason, heading for the door. Irina darted to the window—by the fence stood Mum’s boyfriend with his mate, shouting. She was scared. The son stepped out. The men rushed him—and suddenly landed face-first in the snow, both at once. The boy bent over them, said something, and they slunk off toward Mum’s house. *** The boy returned, watched Irina freeze in fear. Approached: “What, you scared?” Unthinking, Irina buried her face in his chest and cried. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Irina.” “I’m Ruslan. Don’t worry. They won’t come back.” *** Ruslan headed upstairs to his room and stayed there till evening. Irina made borscht, sat at the kitchen table, deep in thought. She longed to stay in this house with these kind people, but knew she’d crossed every line of propriety. The hosts returned. Polina Sergeievna looked around at the spotless kitchen in amazement. Oleg Romanovich smiled approvingly at the borscht. “I’d best go home,” Irina said with resignation. “Thank you for everything!” “Irina, stay a few more days!” “Thank you, Polina Sergeievna! I’ll go home,” Irina repeated, heading for the door and pausing. Ever since yesterday, she’d worn a borrowed dressing gown and slippers. “Come on!” Polina guided her to the lounge. Opened the wardrobe, rummaged through clothes, brought out jeans, a jumper, a warm sports jacket. “Put these on! We’re nearly the same size.” “You really don’t…” “Can’t have you going home half-dressed! Just put them on. I won’t miss them.” She did. Sneaked a look in the mirror—she’d never had such nice clothes before. At the door, Polina made her put on a wool hat and boots. “Irina, wear them in good health!” “Thank you so much, Polina Sergeievna!” *** Life returned to its old routine. Not quite the old routine. Mum found work at a farm. Her boyfriend vanished, taking his mate with him. Spring arrived. One day, Irina was at home doing her homework when someone knocked at the gate. She peeked out the window and couldn’t believe her eyes—it was Ruslan. He nodded—come out. She didn’t just come out—she flew. “Hi!” Ruslan smiled. “Hello!” “Mum wanted to invite you over.” *** Soon she was back at the house where she’d spent such a happy day. “Hello, Irina!” Polina greeted her at the door with a hug. “Hello, Polina Sergeievna!” “Come in! Let’s have some tea.” As they sat, Polina got serious. “I’ve got a favour to ask. My husband and I are off to Turkey for a month,” she smiled. “My son’s barely at home. Would you look after the house? Feed Jack and the cat, water the flowers. I’ve got loads of plants.” “Of course, Polina Sergeievna!” “Excellent.” She brought some money. “Here’s two hundred quid.” “Polina Sergeievna, you shouldn’t…” “Take it! We won’t miss it. Now come, I’ll show you everything!” Irina carefully memorised the locations of plant pots, cat food, meat for the dog. Then Polina called out, “Ruslan!” He appeared from his room. “Introduce Irina to Jack!” “Come on,” Ruslan gently laid a hand on Irina’s shoulder. They went out, unleashed Jack, and went for a walk. Ruslan chatted about uni, karate, his dad’s business. Irina’s thoughts were elsewhere. She felt there was a gulf between her and Ruslan—a gulf like the one between her mum and Ruslan’s parents. Yes, they were kind, good people, but this wasn’t a Cinderella story—this was life. “In two months I’ll take my college entrance exams, and I’ll pass. I’ll study, work, hustle, but I’ll make something of myself. I’ll get married, but definitely not to this handsome guy. Yes, he’s wonderful in every way. But he’s just not for me! I’m grateful to Polina Sergeievna for the clothes and the £200. At least I’ll manage when I first move to the city.” With a sort of sixth sense, the girl knew that at this very moment, her difficult childhood had come to an end. And adult life was beginning—not any easier, but where everything depended on her alone. They reached the house. Irina stroked Jack’s neck, smiled at Ruslan, and headed home. Tomorrow her job at the house would begin. Just the job—nothing more!

00

Staying Connected Every morning in Mrs. Hope Emerson’s home followed the same gentle ritual: kettle on the hob, two spoons of tea leaves in her treasured old teapot—saved from the days when her children were small and everything seemed ahead. As the water heated, the kitchen radio brought the familiar hum of news, more constant than most faces in her life. The yellow-handed clock on the wall kept steady time, but the landline beneath it rang less and less. Evenings once buzzed with calls from friends about soaps or blood pressure; now, those friends were ill, moved away, or gone for good. The phone, solid and reassuring in her palm, was a lingering touchstone—she’d stroke the receiver when passing, just to make sure that way of connecting still lived. Her children now called one another on mobiles. When visiting, their phones were never far from hand; her son could fall silent mid-sentence, stare at the screen, mutter “just a sec,” and tap away. Her granddaughter Daisy, a slender ponytailed girl, hardly let go of hers—there lived friends, schoolwork, music, her own vibrant world. Everything was there, for all of them. All she had was her old flip phone, a present after her first hospital stay for high blood pressure. “So we can always reach you,” her son had said. It lived in a grey case by the hallway mirror, sometimes forgotten uncharged, sometimes nestled in a bag with receipts and tissues. It rang rarely, and she often missed calls, scolding herself for her slowness. The day she turned seventy-five felt strange—the number didn’t fit. She was sure she felt at least ten years younger, maybe fifteen. But the passport didn’t lie. The morning followed its groove: tea, radio, gentle exercises prescribed by the GP. She fetched yesterday’s salad and set a pie on the table. The children were due by two. It amazed her that birthdays were now discussed in a “group chat.” Her son said, “Tanya and I sort everything in the family chat. I’ll show you sometime.” But never quite did. For her, “chat” belonged to another world, where people lived in little windows and spoke in letters. At two, they arrived: first, grandson Arthur with a rucksack and headphones, then Daisy—quiet and swift—and finally her son and daughter-in-law, arms full of shopping. Suddenly, the house was crowded, noisy, and scented with bakery sweets, perfume, and some energetic, indefinable freshness. “Happy birthday, Mum.” Her son hugged her quick and firm, as if already late for something. Gifts were placed on the table, flowers in the vase. Daisy immediately asked for the Wi-Fi password. Her son hunted out a slip of paper and dictated the jumble of letters and numbers that made her head spin. “Granny, why aren’t you on the group chat?” Arthur asked, slipping off his trainers and heading to the kitchen. “That’s where all the action is.” “What chat?” she waved her hand, serving him pie. “This old phone’s fine for me.” “That’s why we… Well, we’ve got you a present,” her daughter-in-law chimed in. Her son brought out a sleek white box. She felt a swell of anxiety—she knew what it held. “A smartphone,” he announced, as if giving a diagnosis. “Nothing fancy, but decent. Camera, internet, all you’ll need.” “But why would I need one?” she tried to keep her voice level. “Mum, so we can use video calls—keep in touch more easily. There’s our family chat, photos, news. Everything’s online now: doctors’ appointments, bills… Keeps you out of those surgery queues you hate.” “I’ll manage…” she began, but her son sighed gently. “Mum, it’s peace of mind. If you need anything, you just message. No more hunting for the green button.” He smiled, softening his words. Still, it stung—“hunting for the green button,” as if she was helpless. “All right,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the box. “If you all want it.” They opened it together, like presents for the children, but now the children were grown and she sat in the centre, feeling not the hostess but the learner at an exam. Out came a slim black rectangle, cold and slick, with not a single button on its face. “It’s all touchscreen,” Arthur explained, swiping the glass to bring it to life. She flinched. It felt clever, foreign—surely about to demand a password or other mystery. “Don’t worry,” Daisy soothed, uncharacteristically gentle. “We’ll set it up. Just don’t press anything until we show you.” Those words stung most—“don’t press anything”—like she was a child who could break the vase. After dinner the family gathered in the lounge. Her son perched next to her, smartphone on her lap. “Right, see—this is power. Hold it. Screen wakes up, then the lock—swipe to unlock, like this.” He moved too fast; words blurred together—a foreign tongue. “Wait, please. Step by step. Or I’ll forget.” “You won’t,” he brushed off. “You’ll get used to it.” She nodded, but knew it would take time—time to make peace with a world now squeezed into these rectangles. By evening, their numbers were saved, the neighbour’s and GP’s too. Her son installed the messenger, created her account, added her to the family chat. Set a big font, so she wouldn’t squint. “Here’s the chat,” he demonstrated. Typed out a message, which appeared on-screen. A reply popped up from her daughter-in-law: “Yay, Mum’s joined!” Daisy added a flurry of emojis. “How do I write?” she asked. “Tap here,” her son showed her the typing field. “Keyboard shows up. Or use voice: press the mic and speak.” She tried. Her hands shook. “Thanx” came out as “thanc.” They all laughed, and she burned with embarrassment—as if she’d failed the easiest test. “You’ll get there. Everyone makes mistakes at first,” he assured her. That night, the house was quiet again: leftover pie, flowers, the white box on the table. The phone lay screen-down nearby. She turned it over and pressed the side as shown. The display flared—her family, last New Year, smiled from the lockscreen. She was there, in blue, eyebrow lifted, as if doubting her place in the crowd. She swiped as taught. Up flicked a flurry of icons—calls, messages, camera—so foreign still. “Don’t press anything wrong,” her son’s warning whispered. But how to know what was wrong? She set the smartphone gently back on the table—let it get used to her flat, she thought. The next morning, she woke early. The smartphone was still there, like an outsider. Yesterday’s fear had ebbed. It was only a thing, after all. She’d learned the microwave, hadn’t she? Even though she’d worried it would explode. She made tea, pulled the phone closer, and turned it on. Her hand sweated. The familiar New Year photo glowed. She swiped, found a green phone icon—at least a little familiar—and pressed. Contacts appeared: son, daughter-in-law, Daisy, Arthur, Mrs. Valentine from next door, her GP. She chose her son and pressed. The device buzzed, then his surprised voice came through. “Mum? Everything okay?” “Fine,” she replied, quietly proud. “Just checking. It worked.” “Told you! Well done! But best to call over the messenger—it’s cheaper.” “How do I—?” “I’ll show you later. I’m at work.” She hung up, breathless but warm inside. She’d done it—on her own. A few hours later, her first family chat message arrived: “Daisy: Gran, how are you?” The reply field blinked, welcoming her in. She stared at it, slowly typing: “All good. Having tea.” A mistake in “good,” but she let it be. Sent it off. Daisy replied instantly—“Wow! You wrote that yourself?”—with a heart. She was smiling, alone at her table. Later, Mrs. Valentine brought over jam. “So, the youngsters gave you one of those clever phones?” she teased. “A smartphone,” Mrs. Emerson replied. The word still sounded posh for her age, but she liked the taste of it. “Is it behaving?” “Mostly chirping. No buttons anywhere.” “My grandson’s on at me about it too,” Mrs. Valentine said. “But I say it’s too late for me. Let them stay in their internet.” “That word—too late—pricked at her. She’d thought it too. But the new thing in her home seemed quietly insistent: perhaps it wasn’t too late. Worth a try, at least. Next day, her son called—he’d booked her a GP appointment online. She was astonished. “Online?” “Yep. On GovUK. I’ve written the login and password—it’s in the phone-table drawer.” She found the neatly folded note, like a doctor’s prescription. Everything seemed clear, but she didn’t know how to begin. The following day, she tried. Opened the browser, typed in the site, every letter a labour. Twice she erased everything. Finally, it loaded—blue and white bars, buttons. “Enter username,” she read aloud. Password next. The username went in, but the mixed letters and numbers of the password were a torment. The keyboard kept vanishing, reappearing; once, she wiped the whole box. She swore under her breath, surprising herself. She rang her son, flustered. “It’s impossible, these passwords!” “Mum, don’t worry. I’ll come round tonight with Arthur—he’s better at this.” She hung up, heavy-hearted. Once again, she needed someone to fix things. Arthur came by that evening. Sitting beside her, he explained again, calmly, showing every button, each switch—how to check appointments, cancel if needed. “Don’t worry, Gran. Nothing to break. If you sign out by mistake, we’ll log back in.” She nodded—no big deal for him, but for her, a trial. Days later, needing to check her appointment, she logged in—her name missing from the list. Had she cancelled it by mistake? Panic rose. The thought of calling her son, interrupting his work, made her hesitate. She didn’t want to be a bother. She took a breath. Tried again. Chose the GP, picked the nearest available slot. Confirmed. The screen told her, “You are now booked.” She checked three times—yes, her name, date, time. Relief washed in. To be sure, she messaged her GP through the chat—using the voice function this time. “Good morning, this is Mrs. Hope Emerson. My blood pressure’s not great. I’ve made an appointment online for Wednesday morning. Please check if you can.” A minute later, a reply: “I see your booking. If symptoms worsen, call anytime.” She felt herself relax. She’d done it. Herself. That evening, she messaged the family chat: “Booked GP myself. Online.” Another typo, but left uncorrected—meaning was what mattered. Daisy answered first: “Grandma, you’re cooler than me!” Others replied with praise and hearts. She reread their messages, something inside gently untwisting. She was no expert in memes or emojis, but a thread had knit between her and her far-flung family. After her peaceful GP appointment, she decided to learn something new. Daisy had once shown her how to swap pictures of food and cats with friends—silly, she’d thought, but a little envious of the shared snapshots of life. One sunny afternoon, Hope picked up her smartphone and opened the camera, snapping her sprouting tomato seedlings on the windowsill. The photo was blurry, but not bad; little shoots stretching for sunlight, like her, learning to reach out. She posted the picture to the family chat: “My tomatoes are growing.” The family fired back—Daisy sent a messy room full of books, her daughter-in-law a salad captioned “Learning from you!”, her son a tired office selfie: “Mum’s got tomatoes, I’ve got end-of-month. Who’s winning?” She laughed aloud. The kitchen no longer felt so empty. They were all, in their own cities, right there with her. Sometimes there were muddles: a misplaced voice note where she grumbled at the TV, to everyone’s amusement—“Mum, you’ve started your own show!” her son joked, and Hope eventually laughed too. She still fumbled buttons, shied at “update your system” messages as if someone meant to swap out all she’d grown used to. But with each day, the fear faded. She found the bus timetable, checked the weather online, even found a recipe like her mother’s, baking the pie and sharing the photo: “Remembered Grandma’s way.” Hearts and applause followed. She realised she checked the landline less and less. It still hung on the wall, but was no longer her lifeline. One evening, under the mellow dusk, she sat reading the family chat: work photos from her son, Daisy’s friend selfies, Arthur’s irreverent jokes. Scattered among theirs, her own—her tomatoes, her recipe, her questions about medicine. She saw she was no longer just an onlooker. She missed half the slang and rarely deployed a perfect emoji. But she was there, read, answered, liked—Daisy’s term. A new message pinged. Daisy: “Gran, algebra test tomorrow. Can I ring and moan after?” She smiled. Typed slow and steady: “Call me. I’m always here to listen.” Sent. She left her smartphone by her teacup. The house was still, but it no longer felt lonely. Somewhere beyond bricks and windows, voices and messages were waiting. She wasn’t part of “the in-crowd,” as Arthur put it, but she’d found her own nook in this world of screens. Hope finished her tea, switched off the kitchen light, and as she left, glanced at the phone—a small, quiet link to her loved ones. For now, that was enough.

06

Even now, I sometimes wake in the dead of night and ask myself when my dad managed to take absolutely everything from us. I was fifteen when it happened. We lived in a small but cosy house – furniture in its place, the fridge stocked well on shopping days, and the bills almost always paid on time. I was in Year 10, and my only worries were getting through Maths and saving up for a pair of trainers I really wanted. Everything began to change when my dad started coming home later and later. He’d walk in without saying hello, toss his keys on the table, and head straight to his room with his phone in hand. Mum would say, “Late again? Do you reckon this house keeps itself?” He’d just reply in a flat voice, “Just leave me alone, I’m tired.” I listened to all of it from my room, headphones on, pretending nothing was happening. One evening I saw him in the garden talking on the phone. He laughed under his breath and said things like “it’s nearly sorted” and “don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” As soon as he saw me, he hung up quickly. I felt a weird ache inside, but said nothing. The day he left was a Friday. I came home from school and saw his suitcase open on the bed. Mum stood in the doorway of their room, her eyes red. I asked, “Where’s he going?” He didn’t even look at me and said, “I’ll be gone for a while.” Mum shouted at him, “A while with who? Just tell the truth!” Then he snapped, “I’m leaving with another woman. I’m sick of this life!” I broke down crying, “What about me? My school? The house?” He just replied, “You’ll figure it out.” He shut his suitcase, grabbed the documents from his drawer, picked up his wallet and walked out without saying goodbye. That same evening, mum tried to get money from the cashpoint but her card was blocked. The next day she went to the bank and they told her the account was empty. He’d withdrawn all the money they’d saved together. On top of that, we learnt he’d left two months of bills unpaid and taken out a loan behind mum’s back, naming her as guarantor. I remember mum sitting at the table, sifting through scraps of paper with an old calculator, crying and muttering, “It’s not enough… it’s just not enough…” I tried to help sort out the bills but didn’t understand even half of what was happening. A week later they cut off our internet, and soon nearly disconnected the electricity, too. Mum started cleaning people’s houses for work. I began selling sweets at school. I was embarrassed standing in the corridor with a bag of chocolates at break time, but I did it because at home we barely had the basics. There was one day I opened the fridge and there was only a jug of water and half a tomato inside. I sat in the kitchen and cried on my own. That same night we had plain rice – nothing else. Mum kept apologising for not being able to provide as she used to. Much later, I saw a photo on Facebook of dad with that woman at a restaurant – raising a glass of wine together. My hands were shaking. I messaged him: “Dad, I need money for school supplies.” He replied: “I can’t support two families.” That was our last conversation. After that, he never called again. Never asked if I’d finished school, if I was ill, if I needed anything. He simply vanished. Now I work, pay for everything on my own, and help my mum. But that wound is still open. Not just because of money – because of the abandonment, the coldness, the way he left us sinking and moved on with his life as if nothing ever happened. And even now, so many nights I wake up with the same question lodged in my chest: How does a person survive when their own father takes everything, leaving them to learn to fend for themselves while they’re still just a child?

08

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

The Day I Went to Get Divorced Dressed as a Bride: How Turning Up to Court in My Wedding Dress—and My Husband in His Suit—Made Everyone Stop and Ask If This Was Really the End