Twenty Years of Pain and Disappointment: How My Husband’s Former Family Made My Life a Misery
When I last closed the door of my London home, I felt like I was stepping into a new, wonderful chapter of life. I wasn’t just moving abroad; I was off to New York to become a wife. Not just any wife, but the spouse of a respected gentleman—an Englishman, divorced, sophisticated, and mature, who left his previous family for me. The wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, under the iconic skyline, seemed like the beginning of a fairy tale. Envy from my friends, admiration from acquaintances, social gatherings, receptions, and magazine photos—life seemed to finally give me everything every woman dreams of. Little did I know that all of this was just a glossy cover hiding years of pain, betrayal, and loneliness.
Samuel was 25 years my senior. We had no children—I was nearing forty, and he had already begun to experience health issues. His grown daughters, Charlotte and Emily, were my peers and had a cold and disdainful attitude towards me from the start. In my eyes, they were arrogant and spoiled, taking whatever they wanted. They’d come to our home and leave with paintings, china, and ornaments, never once asking for permission. Samuel said nothing. He silently allowed them to raid us—his new wife and home. Though he lived with me, he continued paying maintenance to his ex-wife, as outlined in our prenuptial agreement. While we modestly rented a flat, his ex-wife enjoyed the family estate and monthly payments from his pension. I cooked his meals and sat by his side when he was bedridden, yet the money drifted away to the past.
When Samuel got ill, our lavish lifestyle ceased. No more seaside visits or travels—just medications, drips, and humiliation. And after his death? His daughters stormed into our home, claiming everything they deemed “family property.” They broke the cupboard door, took a chair, even the kettle. I remained silent. I didn’t have the strength to fight. All I had left was an English surname and a small flat in Hackney, London, which I rent out. Only this income helps me get by because, in New York, I’m merely one of many in need, living in public housing. Local social services frequently check on me to ensure I’m not secretly working. I live under a microscope, among unfamiliar faces, in a chilly, foreign city.
Whenever I visit London, returning to my small flat, the neighbors view me as the “New Yorker” with mild envy. No one knows I come back not to relax, but to breathe. Here, in my own corner, I feel alive. Here, no one reproaches me, robs me, or watches my every step. Here is my peace. And no matter how much my friends call, envying my “American happiness,” I know what New York really is—a city not of love, but of loneliness.
I have no children. No relatives. Just acquaintances who come to visit—to spend the night under a free “European” roof. Then they disappear. What’s left is Skype, phone calls, and emptiness. I live on the edge—between two countries, two lives, two worlds. Sometimes I want to leave everything behind and return for good. But where? To whom? Everything has been lived, lost, betrayed. What remains is patience.
Perhaps fate will finally have mercy. Maybe, in my twilight years, I’ll live as I had dreamed. For now—I just hang on, gritting my teeth. Like Oliver Twist. In New York.
