We’ve spent ten years together, but because of my father, she took the children and left…
I’m thirty-four. And I’m alone. Completely. My wife is gone. She took our three sons and went to live with her mother in Portsmouth. Meanwhile, I sit in the house I helped build, listening to the clock tick away the emptiness. Ten years we had. You’d think nothing could shatter a life like that. But it did. My father.
I met Emily the way most people do these days—on social media. First, messages, then meetings, and within a couple of months, we married. Everything spun forward like a perfect film. I was genuinely happy. A year later, our first son, Oliver, was born. I was over the moon. Fatigue didn’t exist, problems faded—I lived for my family.
Back then, we lived with my parents in Bristol. That was my first mistake. My father, though hardworking, always drank too much. His outbursts became more frequent—arguments, shouting, humiliation. Emily endured it in silence. I looked the other way, convinced she’d adjust. My mother had long given up on him, but for Emily, it was all new and painful.
Then, one night, drunk and furious, he grabbed her wrists, yelling nonsense. She broke free, called me in tears. I rushed home. Chaos. Screaming. In the end, my father threw us out—me, Emily, and our baby—onto the street. Emily didn’t argue. We left for her mother’s place.
But even there, in Manchester, there was no peace. Her mother… difficult woman. Constant new men, noise, arguments. Emily struggled to adjust; I just felt out of place. But we had nowhere else to go. Emily was pregnant with our second. William arrived—our bright, ever-grinning boy. While Emily cared for the children, I worked two jobs to keep us afloat.
We stayed in that flat almost three years. Then her mother kicked us out. Straight to our faces: “I don’t like you. Get out.” Emily left with me. We rented a place, finally exhaled. No parents, no one else’s rules—for the first time, it felt like we were truly a family. Life wasn’t easy. Money was tight, I carried most of it, Emily took odd jobs at home. But we were together. That was enough.
Then my mother decided to build a house outside Bath—a big family home. She promised things would be different this time. We believed her. We invested—time, labour, savings. Two years later, we moved in. It was a two-storey house, plenty of room for everyone: my parents, us. Life settled. Our third son, Henry, was born.
But the peace didn’t last. Emily’s mother sold her flat and moved to London to live with her brother. On the way, she “stopped by” our place. She never left. Brought another boyfriend. The nitpicking, the gossip, the jabs started again. Emily was on edge, snapping. My father drank more. Meanwhile, I changed jobs, travelling often for work—home once a fortnight. And in that house, the nightmare grew.
Returning from one trip, I found Emily packing. She was crying. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “Your father screamed that all I’m good for is having babies. Called me names. Where were you?”
I stood frozen. Then watched as my wife walked out of our home with our three children. Leaving. Like there was nothing left. But I knew—she was going to her mother. The same woman who’d spent years turning her against me.
I call her every day. Beg her to come back. Break down on the phone. Her replies are cold: “I won’t set foot in that house again. Ever.” I know it’s my fault—I never set boundaries, never protected her, chose my parents’ comfort over her peace.
Now I wonder—maybe we should rent again. Start over. Bring her and the boys back. Build from scratch, just us. No intruders. No drinking. No in-laws, no fights.
I don’t know if she’ll forgive me. If she’ll return. But I know one thing—I don’t want to lose her. We had ten years. That was my life. Now it’s gone. And in this house, without her, the air’s gone too.
