When I was at work, my husband James went to collect the children, and when I walked up to his flat, he wouldn’t even open the door.
Im currently living with my parents in Manchester, while my kids stay with James. He isnt doing that because he loves them; hes using it as a way to punish me.
We met under good circumstances. A mutual friend introduced us at a garden party in Sheffield. We liked each other instantly, so we decided not to put off the wedding. A year later we married in a small chapel, and I was already expecting a baby. Our parents pitched in to find us a place they bought a modest onebedroom flat in a council estate. It was tiny, but it was ours.
Soon after our son Oliver was born, the difficulties began. James hadnt expected a newborn to be fussy and to keep the whole house awake at night. He grew annoyed by scattered toys and hanging nappies, and he didnt like that I was constantly looking after Oliver.
A year later there was another happy announcement: I was pregnant again. Our daughter Lucy arrived, and the strain between James and me deepened. Living in that cramped onebedroom flat became unbearable. He was often irritable, and we argued constantly.
James placed every blame on me. He said my parents hadnt provided a decent home, that I had put on weight after two births, that I was a bad mother, that I was raising the children poorly, and that they were always noisy. In short, the family was slowly falling apart.
I decided to enrol the children in a daycare centre and to look for work. Until then I had been a fulltime housewife. Unfortunately James started coming home drunk more often, and his demands on me and the kids grew harsher. I resolved that I would leave him and, if I earned my own money, move the children into a rented flat of my own.
I found a job as a retail assistant and, while on a break, met a kindly man named Daniel. We began to see each other, which gave me a muchneeded outlet. At home, nothing pleasant awaited only cleaning, laundry, cooking, ironing and a drunken husband.
One day I could take no more and made a decision. I gathered Oliver and Lucy and left. I stayed a few days with my parents, then rented a studio flat in Leeds. A few weeks later, while I was at work, James turned up at the nursery, took the children, and brought them home. I went to his flat, but he simply refused to open the door, even though he was inside.
Now he has given me an ultimatum: either I move back in, or he will file for divorce, keep the children with him, and I will have to pay child support. I fear this because he has connections and the court might tip in his favour.
The worst part is that he shows no genuine care for the kids; he only uses them to manipulate me. Deep down I know that if I refuse his terms, he will eventually tire of the situation and the children will come back to me. Yet I have no idea how long I must wait.
Through all of this I have learned that true freedom and selfrespect are worth far more than any closed door or empty promise.
