13May
I cant just walk away from my first child.
Paul, Olivers nursery fees need to be paid, can you spare some money?
I paused at the doorway. He was slumped on the sofa, phone glued to his hand, not even looking up. He just shook his head.
No money, Sarah.
What do you mean no money? I pressed, stepping forward, my hands automatically resting on my hips.
You were paid yesterday.
He finally tore his eyes away from the screen. His face was as hard as stone, no hint of remorse.
I paid Iris the twomonth arrears on her child support, he said.
My stomach churned with anger.
And thats it? Nothing left at all?
His voice trembled a little, betraying him.
Just a few pennies. I still have to get to work, buy lunch. I dont have any spare cash.
He buried his face back into the phone, signalling the conversation was over. I could no longer hold back.
You never have any money for Oliver! Never, Paul! Do you even realise? The nursery, the clothes, the food it all falls on me. You only think about your Iris!
Sarah, dont start, Paul muttered, still not looking up. Child support is the law. I have to pay. We share the household budget, so whats the difference who pays what?
I spun, snatched my coat from the rack, tears threatening, and slammed the bedroom door shut.
The cold wind on the street whipped my hair, but I didnt care. I clenched my teeth and dialled Mary.
Mary, are you home? Can I come over?
Of course. Whats happened?
Ill tell you later.
I hung up and called a cab.
Half an hour later I was sitting at Marys kitchen table, a steaming mug of tea burning my lips.
Money again? she asked.
I nodded, taking a sip.
Weve been together for five years, Mary. Five years! We have a son together. Yet every time I need money for Oliver Im made to feel small.
I set the cup down, my hand shaking, and ran my fingers over my face. Exhaustion crashed over me.
My exwife gets her child support on time its the court, its the law. Oliver? He can wait. The nursery unpaid? Mother will sort it out. The shoes ripped? Mother will buy new ones. And you just brush it off: No money, my salary isnt elastic.
I fell silent, staring out the rainsplattered window. The grey drops blurred everything. Mary cupped her cup, leaning forward.
Did you actually talk about this? she asked.
Dozens of times, I replied, a bitter smile creeping on my lips. Every time the same thing. I bring up Oliver, the money, how its all on me. He says he cant help, his salary covers us all, I cant abandon my first child. And thats it. Conversation ends.
Mary tapped the table, thinking. Her brows knit together; I knew that look she was weighing something.
Youre not married, right?
Right, I shrugged. We never thought we needed a formal marriage. Then Oliver was born, and there was no time for paperwork. I was on maternity leave, Paul was working. We just lived together.
And on Olivers birth certificate, whos listed as father?
Paul, of course.
I looked at Mary, bewildered.
What are you getting at?
She smiled, a strange mix of predatory and triumphant.
Sarah, you should apply for child support!
I froze, my cup hovering.
What? Apply for child support? We live together.
Mary lifted a finger.
But not married. Legally youre cohabitants, which means you have the right to claim. The law is on your side.
I know its legal, fair, right? she prompted, leaning closer. Hes been using you for years. Maybe a threat will make him change his ways, start taking responsibility for his own son.
I sat there, the idea absurd yet oddly logical. Part of me wanted to rush and do as she suggested; another part felt it would be a betrayal.
I dont know. I need to think.
That evening I picked Oliver up from nursery. He chattered excitedly about the rocket theyd drawn, but my mind was elsewhere. Marys words nagged at me like a splinter.
At home Paul was still slumped on the sofa. Oliver ran to him, shouting Dad!. Paul absentmindedly ruffled his hair and slipped back into his phone. I clenched my jaw and moved to the kitchen to start dinner.
I wasnt ready to follow Marys advice yet. It felt too drastic. We were a family how could I break that?
Ten days later everything shifted.
Oliver showed me his shoes; the sole on one had ripped clean off, the fabric dangling.
Mum, I need new ones, he said, voice full of guilt. I didnt mean to break them.
I sat beside him.
Its fine, love. Tomorrow well get you a new pair, nice ones.
I turned to Paul, who was glued to his computer game.
Paul, Oliver needs shoes. Hand over the money.
No money, Sarah.
He didnt even look up. Something inside me snapped. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
Paul! No money again? Again you cant afford to give your own son proper shoes? How many times do I have to ask?
Dont shout.
He shrugged, trying to slip free.
Ive already said theres no money. What do you want from me?
All the restraint Id held onto burst out.
I want you to be a father! I want my boy not to go around in torn shoes because youre always out of cash. If you dont change, Ill apply for child support. Understand?
Paul leapt up, his face twisted with fury. He stepped toward me, looming.
What are you talking about? Child support? Youre as moneyhungry as Iris! All I hear are my money, my money! Im just a walking wallet for you!
I stood my ground, my whole body trembling with anger and hurt.
Dont compare me to her! I believed in you for five years, waited, hoped youd change. Youre getting worse!
He snarled, Then get out! No ones holding you!
I froze, his eyes a cold, empty void, stripped of love or hope.
Fine. Im leaving. Ill still apply for child support. Dont doubt that.
I stormed to my room to pack. Oliver stood in the doorway, eyes wide.
Mum, where are we going?
To Grandmas, love.
I knelt, hugged him tight.
Well stay with Grandma.
An hour later we were at my mothers house. She opened the door, saw us trembling, and embraced us without a word.
Come in.
The next day I met with a solicitor. It felt like the end the end of five years, of hopes, of a family that never really existed. Yet when I signed the final papers a weight lifted from my shoulders.
Paul kept calling, texting, showing up, pleading that we could talk, that hed change, that we didnt need to go to court. I was unmoved.
Its too late, Paul. Its far too late.
The hearing was swift. The judge ordered roughly £1,200 a month about a quarter of Pauls earnings. He sat there, pale, fists clenched, a twitch in his jaw. I didnt care.
Now I live with my mother and Oliver. Its quiet, steady. The payments arrive each month, on time, reliably. Its far more than what Oliver ever got when we were together.
I bought Oliver new trainers bright, the kind hed been daydreaming about. He runs around the flat, laughing. I watch him and know I made the right choice.
Paul and I are no longer a thing. Im happy. I no longer have to beg for every penny, to be humiliated, to endure his excuses. He now pays what the law says, and thats fair.
Tonight, after tucking Oliver into bed, I sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. Somewhere Paul is still fuming, blaming me. But Im at peace.
Im free. Ive protected my son. And thats enough.
