The Weight of the Past Chokes Us Still
God, how I’ve grown weary of my husband’s ex-wife! She’s never moved on since their divorce, barely thirty and already consumed by spite. They share two children, and she wields them like weapons to tear apart our lives. She claims I stole her family, doing everything to drive us apart—through the children, of course. Calls my husband daily: “The kids are crying, they beg for you to come home!” Her jealousy poisons the air.
But I never lured Andrew away. We met in Manchester, working at the same firm. I knew he was married, and between us, there was nothing but professional talk. Back then, I was with a bloke who was always off somewhere, never around. I remember that office party—we brought our partners. His ex, Genevieve, was appalling: drank too much, flirted with every man in sight, made a spectacle of herself. I was mortified.
Andrew left her not long after. Around that time, I upended my own life too—split with my boyfriend, switched jobs, earned a promotion. Andrew had his own flat but drifted between rentals while Genevieve assumed he’d “come crawling back.” He never did. We started dating, then married.
Three years since our wedding, and Genevieve still won’t relent. Not only does she refuse to accept it, but she drags the children into her schemes. Their daughter’s nine, their son seven—old enough to understand. Once, the girl confessed to Andrew that her mum made her sob down the phone, demanding Daddy come home.
Genevieve insists their meetings happen only at her place. Not in a park, never at ours—absolutely forbidden. Meanwhile, she parades in skimpy outfits, preening like some desperate peacock, hoping to win him back. Futile. Andrew says the kids, supposedly “missing him,” scatter the moment he arrives—the boy bolts to play outside, the girl locks herself away with her phone. And Genevieve? Always inventing reasons to keep him longer—“fix the tap,” “move the wardrobe.” She calls our home a “den of sin,” forbids the children from setting foot here.
Once, after Andrew’s night shift, his phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Genevieve’s name flashed. I answered but stayed silent. Then a child’s voice: “Daddy, when are you coming?” I said, “Hello?” The girl faltered, handed the phone over: “Mum, some woman’s there.” Genevieve snarled, “Oi, put my husband on!” Stunned, I shot back, “Your husband? Don’t know him. Ours is right here.” Later, she whinged to Andrew, saying I’d insulted her.
After that, the oddities began. My manager was bombarded by debt collectors swearing I owed thousands—though I’d never taken a loan. Then a fake dating profile surfaced, my photos plastered online. Messages from a so-called “admirer” started pouring in. Andrew and I knew exactly whose handiwork this was. Genevieve would stoop to anything to split us apart.
I don’t begrudge Andrew his time with the kids—but not like this! They shouldn’t be pawns in her twisted game. How do I make Genevieve leave us be?
