28April2025
Dear Diary,
Today at work I received a call that left my stomach in knots. Tom had gone to collect the children from the nursery, and when I hurried down to greet him, he simply stood there and wouldnt let me in. The front door stayed shut, as if hed locked it in his mind.
Im still living with my mum and dad in Manchester, while Tom and the kids are staying with my husband in his flat. It isnt because he loves them more; its a punishment hes chosen to impose on me.
Tom and I met through a mutual friend, Mark, at a gathering in a pub in Fulham. We hit it off immediately, and before we knew it we were saying I do a year later. I was already expecting our first baby. Our parents pooled what they could and helped us find a modest onebedroom flat in Croydon. It was tiny, but it was ours.
The moment our son Jack arrived, the cracks began to show. Tom wasnt prepared for a sleepless infant, for the endless trail of toys scattered across the carpet, for the diapers hanging on the coatrack. He seemed irritated every time I bent over to soothe Jack or change his nappy. He began to blame me for the mess, for the noise, for anything that went wrong.
A year later another bright spot: I was pregnant again. Lily was born, and the strain only deepened. A oneroom flat is cramped for three little people, and Toms temper grew sharper. We argued constantly. He pointed the finger at me for everything that my parents hadnt secured a larger home, that I had put on a few pounds after two births, that I was a bad mother who couldnt keep the house quiet. I could see the familys foundation slipping away.
I decided to enrol the children at a local toddler centre and start looking for work again. Until then Id been a fulltime stayathome mum. Toms nights grew darker, his bottlehanded evenings more frequent, and his demands on me and the kids escalated. I resolved that if I earned my own wages, I could move out of his grip and into a rented flat of my own.
I landed a parttime admin job and, in the meantime, met a kind bloke named James at the community centre. We began to see each other for a few drinks and walks a small breath of fresh air amidst the endless washing, cooking, ironing, and the everpresent scent of stale whisky. It felt like a safety valve, the only thing that gave me hope.
One morning I reached my limit. I gathered Jack and Lily, stayed a few nights at my parents house, then secured a modest studio in Shoreditch. I thought I could finally start anew. Then, while I was at work, Tom turned up at the nursery, scooped the children up, and marched them home. I went to his flat, but he kept the door shut, refusing even to look at me.
Now hes given me an ultimatum: I must move back in, or hell file for divorce, keep the children with him, and Ill be left paying maintenance. Im terrified. He has connections, and I fear the court will lean his way. The worst part is that he shows no genuine care for the kids; he uses them as pawns to control me. Deep down I know that if I stand my ground, the children will eventually see the truth, grow tired of his games, and come back to me. But how long must I wait? I have no idea how to sit with that uncertainty.
All I can do now is try to keep my head above water, hoping the tide will turn in my favour.
Sarah.
