“Enough of you and your whiny children!” he shouted.
My life with Andrew began like a fairy tale. We met at university in the town of Reading: I was studying English Literature, while he was focused on Physics. Our relationship was filled with romance; Andrew wrote me poetry, brought me flowers, and left sweet notes on my dormitory door. I was head over heels in love, believing it would last forever. But that fairy tale turned into a nightmare that shattered my heart and nearly broke me.
Shortly after we graduated, we tied the knot. Not long after, our son Oliver was born, followed three years later by our daughter Sophie. I was overflowing with joy, yet everything changed with the arrival of our second child. The tender, caring man I loved vanished. He stopped helping around the house, became rude, and eventually fell into alcohol. His once warm eyes turned cold and distant.
Whenever I tried to talk, he would explode:
— Just leave me alone! Your job is the children and the home! Don’t interfere with me!
For six months, we lived like strangers. Andrew would come home drunk, angry, and sometimes wouldn’t return at all. He wouldn’t explain where he’d been, and I was too scared to ask, fearing another argument. Our intimacy faded — we became mere acquaintances under one roof. I remembered his poetry, our walks beneath the stars, and cried at night, hoping he would return to the man I once knew. But hope dimmed each passing day.
One evening, as I was preparing dinner with the children playing nearby, the door crashed open and Andrew stormed in, his face flushed with rage. His eyes burned with madness.
— I’m done with you! And with your whiny kids! I have someone else! I’m leaving! — he shouted, hurling everything he could find at me: plates, books, even a chair.
I shielded the children, my heart pounding with fear. Oliver and Sophie cried, pressing against me. Trembling, I dialed my mother-in-law’s number. “Please don’t call the police,” she pleaded. “We’ll be there soon.” I agreed, but inside, I was screaming from pain and fear.
When my mother-in-law and her husband arrived, I discovered a truth that turned my world upside down. After ten years of marriage, I learned that Andrew suffered from bipolar disorder and serious mental health issues. His parents had hidden this from me, fearing I would leave. They had been secretly taking him to doctors, feeding him medication, but recently, Andrew had stopped taking it. His outbursts, aggression, and occasionally confusing reality with his fantasies were symptoms I had overlooked.
I was in shock. How had I not noticed? Caught up in motherhood, I attributed his rudeness to exhaustion and a difficult personality. And his family had stayed silent, allowing me to live in ignorance. That night, I packed our things, took the children, and went to a friend’s house. It was tough to start anew with two little ones, but I could not remain in that hell.
Divorce was unavoidable. I initiated the process, and soon we parted ways. But six months later, Andrew married someone else. Instead of offering support, my mother-in-law blamed me: “You abandoned my sick boy! How could you?” Her words hurt, yet I refused to let them break me. I fought for my children, for our future, and I endured.
Now, I live for Oliver and Sophie. We rent a small flat, and I work, grateful every day for having escaped. Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t leave sooner. Love had blinded me, while hope had kept me trapped. Andrew is a chapter of my past, yet his words still echo in my mind. I have no regrets about my choice, but the pain of betrayal and deception will linger for a long time.