The Ghost of Ex-Wives Past
Honestly, I’ve had it up to here with my husband’s ex-wife! She’s barely over thirty, yet she’s clinging to their divorce like a scorned character from a telly drama. They’ve got two kids together, and she’s weaponising them to make our lives a misery. Claims I “stole her family,” as if we’re in some sort of supermarket sweep for blokes. Her jealousy? Toxic as a week-old kebab.
For the record, I didn’t lure Simon away. We met in Manchester, working for the same firm. Knew he was married, kept it strictly professional—watercooler chats, the odd spreadsheet debacle. Back then, I was dating a bloke whose idea of commitment was leaving a toothbrush at my flat between his “business trips” (read: lads’ weekends in Magaluf). Then came the office Christmas party. His ex, Jessica, turned up like a hurricane in heels—drunk, flirting with anything in a suit, causing scenes. Simon looked like he wanted to vanish into the mince pies.
He left her not long after. Coincidentally, so did I—dumped the wanderer, got a promotion, adulted properly. Simon, meanwhile, bounced between rentals while Jessica assumed he’d come crawling back. Spoiler: he didn’t. We started dating, then married.
Three years on, Jessica’s still staging a one-woman vendetta. Their kids—Sophie, nine, and Oliver, seven—are getting dragged into it. Sophie once confessed she’d been coached to sob down the phone: *“Daddy, we miss you!”* Pathetic.
Jessica insists visits happen only at hers—no park trips, certainly not *our* house (which she calls a “den of iniquity,” dramatic much?). She’ll prance about in outfits better suited to a nightclub, batting her lashes while Simon fixes her leaky tap. The kids? Vanish the second he arrives—Oliver’s off footballing, Sophie’s glued to TikTok.
Once, Simon was knackered after a night shift. His phone blared—Jessica, naturally. I answered silently. A tiny voice piped up: *“Dad, when are you coming?”* I said, *“Hello?”* Cue muffled panic: *“Mum, some lady’s there!”* Jessica snarled, *“Put my husband on!”* I deadpanned, *“Your husband? Must’ve dialled wrong—ours is busy being *my* husband.”* Cue her whinging to Simon about my “rudeness.”
Then things got weird. My boss got harassed by loan sharks claiming I owed thousands (I’ve never even had a Klarna slip). A fake dating profile popped up with my photos. “Admirers” slid into my DMs. Please. We *know* who’s behind it.
I’ve no issue with Simon seeing the kids—just not as pawns in her bitter chess game. How do we make Jessica… well, *stop*? The Woman Formerly Known as Mrs. Davies needs a hobby. Knitting? Therapy? A *life*? Anything but this.
