—Oh, you’re never happy with anything!— I snapped at my mother-in-law. The next day, she took her revenge in the cruelest way possible.
My name is Edmund. These days, I live in Liverpool, remarried with a wonderful family and a young son. But the scar from my first marriage still aches—because my daughter remains there, lost to me through no fault of my own.
I met my first wife, Alice, during my second year at university. We grew close quickly, courting for a few months. Then, as my feelings began to wane, she revealed she was with child. We were far too young, and I knew at once things were going awry. Still, I wouldn’t shirk my duty—I married her. Her parents gifted us a one-bedroom flat in Chester for the wedding, while mine paid for a holiday by the seaside.
Months later, our daughter, Eleanor, was born. I loved her from the first moment. Yet, truth be told, our home was far from peaceful. The greatest thorn was my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore. She lived in the building next door and practically lived in our flat, endlessly berating everything: how I held the baby, how I spoke to Alice, how little I earned. I bore it in silence—for too long—enduring it all for my wife and child.
One evening, I returned from work, weary, only to walk into another scene. Margaret was displeased—again. And that’s when I finally lost my temper.
—Good Lord, will nothing ever satisfy you? Why must you always find fault? Have you ever once smiled, ever spoken a kind word?—
She said nothing. Simply turned on her heel and left. I thought—well, at last. Perhaps she’ll reflect. But I had no inkling of the horror awaiting me the next day.
I came home to find my key wouldn’t turn in the lock. My two suitcases sat beside the door. It took a moment to understand. I pounded, I rang, I shouted. Through the door, Margaret answered.
—Take your things and be gone. You’ll see neither wife nor daughter again.—
I thought it a jest. It was not. Alice never even came to the door. Within a week, she filed for divorce—no discussion, no chance to defend myself. I was left with nothing: no family, no answers, no Eleanor.
Years have passed. I’ve married again. My second wife, Beatrice, gave me a son. I’m happy now; I cherish them both. Yet my heart still aches—for Eleanor. Every month, I pay my dues without fail. Alice accepts them but forbids me all contact—no photos, no calls, not so much as a glimpse.
Why? I cannot say. I never strayed. Never raised a hand. All I did was speak plainly to her mother.
And for that—I was erased from my own child’s life.
