Twenty Years of Pain and Disappointment: How My Husband’s Former Family Made My Life a Nightmare
When I last shut the door to my London home behind me, I thought I was embarking on a beautiful new chapter. I wasn’t just moving abroad; I was heading to New York City to become a wife. Not just any wife, but the spouse of a respected gentleman—an older Englishman, divorced and refined, who had left his previous family for me. Our wedding at the grand St. Patrick’s Cathedral, beneath the arches of Manhattan, seemed like the beginning of a fairytale. Friends envied, acquaintances admired, we attended social gatherings, cocktail parties, and appeared in society magazines—it seemed destiny had finally given me what every woman dreams of. Little did I know, this was just a glossy cover hiding years of pain, betrayal, and loneliness.
Samuel was twenty-five years my senior. We had no children—I was nearing forty, and he was already starting to struggle with his health. His adult daughters, Catherine and Frances, who were my age, greeted me with disdain and indifference from the outset. To me, they seemed insolent and spoiled, always ready to take without asking. They would come into our home and leave with paintings, dinner sets, and figurines. They never once sought permission. Samuel remained silent. Silently allowing them to raid what was ours, his new wife’s and his home. He lived with me but continued to pay alimony to his ex-wife. Yes, it was all detailed in the prenuptial agreement. While we modestly rented a flat, his ex-wife relished staying in their family house and relied on a monthly sum from his pension. I made him broth, sat by his side when he couldn’t rise from bed, while the money slipped into the past.
When he fell ill, our lavish lifestyle came to an abrupt halt. Gone were the seaside and the travels—replaced by pills, IV drips, and humiliation. And after his death? His daughters stormed into our place and took everything they deemed “family heirlooms.” They broke open the wardrobe, took the armchair, even the teapot. I remained silent. I had neither the strength nor the will to fight. All that remains with me is his English surname and a small rented apartment in East London. Just these rental funds keep me afloat because in New York, I’m merely one among many in need, living in public housing. The local welfare authorities continually check if I’m secretly earning somewhere. I live as if under a microscope, among unfamiliar faces, in the cold, foreign language.
And when I visit London, to my small flat, neighbors regard me as a “New Yorker,” with a touch of envy. No one knows I come not to relax, but to breathe. Here, in my little corner, I feel alive. Here, I’m neither reproached nor robbed, and no one shadows my every move. Here is my peace. And no matter how my friends call to envy my “American dream,” I know the reality of New York—not a city of love, but one of solitude.
I have no children. No relatives. Only acquaintances who occasionally visit—to stay the night and make use of a free “European” roof. Then, they vanish. I’m left with Skype, landline calls, and emptiness. I live on the edge—between two countries, two lives, two worlds. Sometimes I feel like abandoning it all and returning for good. But where to? To whom? Everything has been lived, lost, betrayed. All that’s left is patience.
Perhaps fate will eventually show some mercy. Maybe in my later years, I will live as I dreamed. For now—I just hold on. Gritting my teeth. Like the little soldier. In New York.
