I was at the office when James popped over to collect the kids, and when I hurried to his flat, he simply wouldnt open the door.
These days Im crashing at my mum and dads in Manchester, while the children stay with James. It isnt because he adores them hes decided to punish me that way.
We met through a mutual friend at a pub in Liverpool and hit it off right away. We liked each other so much we skipped the lets wait a bit stage and married a year later. I was already expecting our first baby, and both sets of parents swooped in to help us find a place. In the end we got a modest onebedroom council flat in Salford. It was tiny, but it was ours.
No sooner had Oliver arrived than the cracks started to show. James hadnt signed up for sleepless nights, rogue toys strewn about, and diapers dangling from the radiator. He seemed to think the world would keep turning while I was busy changing nappies and soothing a whimpering infant.
A year later another piece of good news rolled in: a second baby on the way. Poppy arrived, and the flat felt even more like a sardine can. James was constantly irritable, we argued over everything, and the walls seemed to close in.
He blamed me for everything. Your parents didnt sort us a proper home, hed say. Youve put on weight after two births. Youre a terrible mum, youre raising noisy brats. Slowly the family was unraveling at the seams.
I decided to enroll the kids in a daycare centre and look for work Id been a fulltime housewife up until then. James started coming home later and later, usually smelling of lager, and his demands grew louder. I resolved that if I could earn my own money, I could move into a rented flat on my own.
I landed a job in a local shop, met a friendly chap named Simon, and we began to date. It was a breath of fresh air, a vent for the madness at home, where the daily menu was cleaning, laundry, cooking, ironing, and a drunken husband.
One morning I finally snapped. I packed Oliver and Poppy, stayed a few nights with my parents, and then moved into a small studio flat in Sheffield. A few weeks later, while I was at work, James turned up at the nursery, scooped the kids up, and disappeared. I marched over to his flat, but he stood there, arms crossed, refusing to let the door open even though he was home.
Now hes given me an ultimatum: either I move back in, or hell file for divorce, keep the children, and force me to pay maintenance. Im terrified he knows a few influential people, and the courts might swing his way.
The worst part is that he hardly looks after the kids at all; he uses them as pawns to manipulate me. Deep down I know that if I dont give in, the children will eventually tire of his antics and come running back to me. The question is: how long do I have to wait before that happens?
