I was glued to the window, staring out at the London night as if the darkness could answer my thoughts. A halfempty glass of whisky clinked in my grip, the ticking of the hallway clock the only soundtrack to the silence. Every second stretched like a badly rehearsed drama.
Emily was late. Way too late.
Then the street lights were momentarily swallowed by a pair of headlights. A sleek black Mercedes pulled up in front of the terraced house on Hackney Road. My heart did a little somersault. Behind the wheel sat a tall, confident stranger.
The passenger door swung open and she stepped out.
A cold shiver ran down my spine.
She smiledlight, natural, as if sharing a private joke with the man. She leaned over, whispered something, and he let out a soft, almost intimate laugh. Then she closed the door and walked back to the house, oblivious to the storm gathering inside me.
My blood seemed to boil.
Who was he? How long had this been going on? Was this the first time?
Emily slipped inside, tossed her handbag onto the kitchen table as if shed just come from the grocery shop.
Who was that? I asked, voice low and edged.
She froze, eyes widening. Excuse me?
That man in the car. Who is he?
She sighed, clearly irritated. Thomas, love, not again It was just Julies husband giving me a lift. Thats all. Are you serious?
I couldnt hear a word beyond the low hum of my own rage. A hot, throbbing pressure built in my skull, thoughts turning black as a London fog.
My hand rose of its own accord.
The slap landed with a sharp crack that echoed through the room.
Emily recoiled, her hand clasping her face. A thin line of blood trickled from her nose.
The ensuing silence was unbearable.
She stared at me, eyes wide with terror.
A knot formed in my throat.
Id crossed a line.
One I could never uncross.
She didnt scream, didnt weep. She simply grabbed her coat and left.
The next morning a bailiff handed me the divorce papers, complete with a £12,000 settlement.
Id lost everything even my son.
I put up with your jealousy for years, Emily said in our final conversation, her voice as cold as a winter night, but violence? Never.
I begged her to forgive me, swore it was a momentary lapse, a oneoff mistake that would never happen again.
She wouldnt hear a word of it.
The final blow came in court, where she claimed I was also violent with our son.
A lie. A vicious lie that sealed my fate.
Id never raised a hand to my boy, never shouted at him. But whos likely to believe a man whos already hit his wife?
The judge didnt blink.
She was granted sole custody.
Me? A few hours a week, in a neutral setting.
No nighttime visits, no mornings making crumpets.
For six months my world shrank to those thin slices of time: him sprinting toward me, giggling, his tiny arms looping around my neck, then the inevitable goodbye, over and over.
Then one afternoon, while he was pushing his little toy cars across the kitchen table, he looked up with that innocent tone of fiveyearolds and said:
Dad, mum wasnt home last night. There was a lady with me.
My heart stopped.
A lady? Which lady? I asked, trying to sound calm.
I dont know. She comes when mum goes out at night.
A chill ran through me.
Where does she go?
He shrugged. She doesnt tell me.
My fingers clenched.
I had to know.
When I finally uncovered the truth, my throat tightened like a knot. Emily had hired a nanny.
A foreign nanny.
While I was begging for more time with my own son, she was handing him over to a stranger.
I grabbed my phone and called her.
Why is a stranger looking after our boy when Im right here? I demanded.
Her voice was flat, icy. Because its simpler.
Simpler?! My anger roared. Im his father! If he cant stay with you, he stays with me!
She sighed. Thomas, Im not going to drive across the city every time I have a meeting. Stop making everything about you.
My phone trembled in my hand.
What could I do? Sue her? Fight for custody?
And lose again?
One misstep, one slipup, and everything would be gone.
But my son?
I wont let him slip away.
Ill fight.
Because hes the only thing I have left.
