I stood rigid by the window, the night pressing against the glass. My clenched fist held a halfempty glass of Scotch, the amber liquid trembling as the clock on the mantel ticked mercilessly, each second stretching like a blade.
She was late.
Far too late.
Then headlights sliced through the darkness.
A sleek black sedan rolled to a stop outside our terraced house on a quiet lane in Surrey. My heart lurched. In the driver’s seat, a tall, confident stranger stared back at the streetlight.
The passenger door swung open.
And she stepped out.
A cold shiver raced down my spine.
Emily smiledsoft, effortless, as if sharing a private joke. She leaned toward him, whispered something, and he let out a low, intimate laugh.
She closed the door, turned back to the house, oblivious to the storm raging inside me.
My blood boiled.
Who was this man? How long had this been going on? Was this the first time?
She walked through the front door, carelessly tossed her handbag onto the kitchen table, as if nothing had happened.
Who was that? My voice was low, edged with steel.
She froze, eyes widening in surprise. Excuse me?
That man in the car. Who is he?
She sighed heavily, frustration flickering across her face. Tom not again. Hes Julies husband. He gave me a lift, thats all. Are you serious?
I couldnt hear any of it.
All I sensed was a low, seething rage gnawing at my brain, a scorching heat in my skull, a flood of dark thoughts.
My hand rose before I could stop it.
The slap cracked through the room.
Emily recoiled, hand pressed against her cheek, a thin line of blood spilling from her nose.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
She stared at me, frozen, eyes wide with terror.
A knot tightened in my throat.
I had crossed a line.
A line I could never step back from.
She didnt scream. She didnt cry. She simply grabbed her coat and left.
The next morning a bailiff handed me the divorce papers.
I had lost everything even my son.
I put up with your jealousy for years, Emily said in our final conversation, her voice as cold as ice. But I will never tolerate the violence.
I begged her forgiveness, swearing it was a oneoff mistake, a moment of madness that would never happen again.
She wouldnt listen.
Then, in court, she claimed I was also abusive toward our child.
A lie.
A vicious lie that sealed my fate.
I had never raised my hand against him, never shouted at him.
But who believes a man who has already struck his wife?
The judge didnt hesitate. She awarded her sole custody.
Me? A few hours a week, supervised visits in a neutral setting.
No nights at home. No mornings making him toast.
For six months my life shrank to those sparse hours the rare bursts when my fiveyearold would race to me, his little arms looping around my neck, only to be taken away again and again.
Then one afternoon, as he nudged his toy cars across the kitchen table, he looked up with an innocent voice and said,
Dad, last night Mum wasnt here. There was a lady with me.
My heart stopped.
A lady? Which lady? I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady.
I dont know. She comes when Mum goes out at night.
A chill ran through me.
Where does she go?
He shrugged. She doesnt tell me.
My fingers clenched.
I needed answers.
When the truth emerged, my throat tightened into a knot.
Emily had hired a nanny.
A foreign woman.
While I scraped for any extra time with my own son, she was handing him over to a stranger.
I grabbed my phone and called.
Why is a stranger looking after our boy when Im here? I demanded.
Her tone was icy, detached. Because its easier.
Easier?! My anger roared. Im his father! If he cant be with you, he should be with me!
She sighed. Tom, Im not going to drive across town every time I have an appointment. Stop making everything about you.
My hand trembled around the receiver.
What could I do? Sue her? Fight for custody?
And if I lost again?
One mistake. One slip of the hand.
And everything would be gone.
But my son?
I would not let him be taken away.
I would fight.
Because he is the only thing I have left.
