Twenty Years of Pain and Disappointment: How My Husband’s Former Family Made My Life Hell
When I last closed the door of my London flat, I felt like I was stepping into a new, wonderful chapter of life. I wasn’t just going abroad; I was moving to New York to become a wife. Not just any wife, but the partner of a respected, divorced, mature Jewish gentleman who had left his past family for me. Our wedding at St. Patrick’s Cathedral under the iconic city skyline seemed like the beginning of a fairytale. The envy of friends, the admiration of acquaintances, social events, parties, photos in magazines—it seemed like destiny had finally granted me what every woman dreams of. Little did I know, it was a glossy cover hiding years of pain, betrayal, and loneliness.
Samuel was twenty-five years my senior. We didn’t have children—I was nearly forty, and he had already begun to decline in health. His adult daughters, Catherine and Frances, who were my age, initially greeted me with disdain and coldness. To me, they seemed rude, spoiled, with grasping hands. They would come to our home and leave with paintings, china sets, and figurines, never once seeking permission. Samuel remained silent. He silently allowed them to plunder us—his new wife and home. He lived with me but continued to pay alimony to his former wife. Yes, it was all stipulated in the prenuptial agreement. While we modestly rented an apartment, his ex-wife enjoyed the family estate and monthly payments from his pension. I cooked him soups, sat by his side when he couldn’t get out of bed, while the money slipped into the past.
When he fell ill, our lavish life ended. There were no coastal trips, no travels—just pills, IVs, and humiliation. After his death, his daughters stormed into our home and took everything they deemed “family heirlooms.” They broke the cabinet door, took a chair, even a kettle. I remained silent. I had no strength to fight. All that was left to me was the Jewish surname and a small flat in a less fashionable part of London, which I rented out. Only this income allows me to survive because, in New York, I’m just another person in need, living in a public housing flat. Local social services constantly check if I’m secretly earning somewhere. I live under scrutiny, among unfamiliar faces, in the cold, and with a foreign language.
When I return to London to my small flat, my neighbors look at me as the “New Yorker,” with a touch of envy. No one knows I come back not for a holiday but to breathe. Here, in my corner, I feel alive. Here, I’m not reproached, robbed, or watched at every step. Here is my peace. As much as my friends call me, envying my “American happiness,” I know what New York really looks like—not a city of love, but one of loneliness.
I have no children. No family. Just friends who visit—stay over and enjoy the free “American” roof. Then they disappear. I’m left with Skype, calls on the landline, and emptiness. I live on the edge—between two countries, two lives, two worlds. Sometimes I want to drop everything and return for good. But where? To whom? Everything has already been lived, lost, and betrayed. Only one thing remains—patience.
Maybe fate will have mercy after all. Maybe at least in my later years, I’ll live as I once dreamed. For now, I’m just holding on. Gritting my teeth. Like Gavroche. In New York.
