Your daughter from your first marriage means more to you than our son,” I spat at Simon.
He barely looked up. “Don’t start again.”
And just like that, he brushed me off—like my words, like our child, didn’t matter. I stood there, fists clenched, wondering how we got to this point. How had our little boy become a footnote in his father’s life?
Simon and I have been together for twelve years. His first marriage lasted just three before he divorced his wife and left her with their daughter—and a hefty maintenance bill. He used to say it was all her fault, her constant greed. “No matter how much I gave, it was never enough.” When we met in Manchester, I believed him. I pitied him, even. Poor man—chained to a manipulative ex.
We got married despite my family’s doubts. “Why marry a man with baggage?” they warned. I thought love would smooth the rough edges. I was wrong.
When Oliver was born, it felt like something out of a dream. Simon was doting—gentle, present, endlessly fascinated by every yawn and burble. But by the time Oliver turned four, things began to change. Simon was climbing the ladder at his firm in Birmingham. Promotions came fast. So did the pay. And just like that, Victoria—his ex—came back into the picture.
She’d split from her second husband and decided Simon’s new income was fair game. When subtle didn’t work, she played her trump card: their daughter, Emily.
“She barely knows her father,” she said. “She’s struggling without him… and there’s never enough money.”
Simon folded like wet paper. “We have to help Emily,” he said. And I didn’t argue. Supporting your child—of course. But I didn’t expect what came next.
It was like someone opened a floodgate. Money poured into Victoria’s house—child support, sure, but also endless extras. A new phone every few months. A top-of-the-line gaming PC. Designer trainers. The latest toys. If Emily didn’t want it yet, she’d have it by next week. Every “expense” was met with Simon’s guilt-ridden generosity.
Meanwhile, things at home unraveled.
Fridays used to be Oliver’s favourite. Simon would bring him little gifts—a puzzle, a storybook, a toy train. It was their thing. But then the gifts stopped.
Oliver would run to his dad, eyes bright. Simon would hand him a sweet from his pocket, maybe mutter something like, “The shop was closed.”
At first, Oliver believed him. And I kept quiet—I didn’t want to be the one to light the match.
But one day, Oliver had had enough.
“Dad, have you turned stingy?” he asked, his voice small but sharp.
Simon flushed, embarrassed. The next week, he bought a toy. The week after, too. But by the third, we were back to a single sweet.
That time, Oliver didn’t say anything. Just looked at the sweet, dropped it on the floor, walked to his room, and slammed the door behind him.
Then he locked it.
I stood outside, heart aching, listening to the silence on the other side. Wondering how Simon could miss what was happening right in front of him.