My brother swore he never wanted children, but his wife outwitted him in the end.
My brother James married my dearest friend Eleanor, and now their domestic drama tears me in two. I’m caught between them, unsure whom to support—James, who was deceived, or Eleanor, who schemed for her own happiness. Their feud in our quiet town of Birchwood has become a tragedy of betrayal and bitter resentment.
James had two divorces behind him and two sons to whom he dutifully paid maintenance. But fatherhood, for him, was only a financial duty. He scarcely spent time with his boys, and when he met Eleanor, he laid down his terms: no children. “I’m tired of the burden. I want to live for myself,” he declared, his voice firm as stone. Eleanor, my friend since grammar school, agreed without hesitation. That unsettled me. She had always longed for a bustling home, for children’s laughter, often saying her “biological clock was ticking.” But I never suspected deception—never warned James. How wrong I was!
In the early days of their marriage, all seemed perfect. James glowed with happiness, certain he’d found his ideal woman. Eleanor played the part—dutiful, devoted, willing to accept his terms. But nine months later, she struck like lightning: “I’m pregnant.” James was furious. “We had an agreement!” he shouted, voice trembling with betrayal. Their home became a battleground—Eleanor in tears, James slamming doors—until exhaustion forced his surrender.
Eleanor bore a son, the very image of James—the same blue eyes, the same dimpled cheeks. I thought the boy might thaw his heart, but James remained cold, refusing to hold him, refusing to change nappies, as if the child belonged to a stranger. Eleanor endured, hoping time would mend things. They stayed together, but the rift between them deepened.
Two years later, Eleanor struck again: “I’m pregnant.” James paled, his eyes dark with fury. It was no accident—she’d waited until it was too late to turn back. I’m certain she planned it. James stormed out, vanished for days—sleeping on friends’ sofas, ignoring calls—yet inevitably returned. Divorce? He knew it would change nothing. The children would still bear his name.
Eleanor gave birth to a daughter—perfect, rosy-cheeked—but James refused to collect them from the hospital. “This wasn’t my choice,” he said, his voice steel. He gave no money for the children either. Eleanor, on maternity leave, scraped by—writing essays for university students, selling articles—stretching every pound for clothes, food, necessities. I watched her wear herself thin, yet her eyes burned with resolve.
Then, she made the move that shattered James completely. He worked a proper job with legal wages, and in a year, his payments for his second son would have ended. But Eleanor filed for maintenance through payroll—the law allowed it, even in marriage. James discovered it only when deductions began slicing his pay. He came to me, shaking with rage: “She’s trapped me! This was all plotted!” Eleanor hadn’t warned him—just acted, leaving him powerless.
Now James is cornered. Eighteen years of payments loom, and he feels mutilated by deceit. Had she demanded maintenance after the first child, he’d have divorced her without hesitation. But she played the long game—bore two children, secured her position, then revealed her hand. James is backed into a wall, his fury boundless.
I’m torn. Part of me understands him. He was honest from the start—no children, full stop. Eleanor nodded along, only to deceive him, to dismantle his dream of freedom. Her ruthlessness chills me—this was no accident, but a calculated siege. She won, but at what cost? James will never forgive her, and their marriage is crumbling.
Yet another part pities Eleanor. She’s a woman, and I know how desperately she wanted motherhood. For her, this was no whim—it was life’s purpose. James acted cruelly: abandoning her at the hospital, refusing even a penny for their children. Did he leave her any choice? Taking maintenance may seem underhanded—but was it truly unjust? The money is for her children, and the law stands with her.
What does she expect? That James will soften, that they’ll live happily ever after? Or is she prepared for the war that will wreck them entirely? I don’t know who’s right. To deceive her husband, knowing his stance, feels like treachery. But to condemn a woman to childlessness, to neglect his own flesh and blood—is that any better? They are husband and wife, yet they act as enemies. I look at their children—bright-eyed, innocent—and cannot take a side. What would you do?