I Thought My Husband Was Supporting His Three Daughters From His First Marriage—But That Wasn’t the …

I used to believe that my husband supported his three daughters from his first marriage, that he fulfilled his duty as a father. Each time I asked after the girls, he calmly assured me that everything was in order, that he sent the maintenance money every month. Yet, something unsettled me, a nagging thought that wouldnt let me rest until I knew the truth for myself.

One grey Tuesday morning, while he was at work, I found an old address on a tattered page from his divorce papers and made my way to the other side of London. The neighbourhood was markedly poorer than our own narrow terraced houses, paint peeling from the sills, a world away from the comfort I knew. Even before I stepped out from the car, a strange anxiety gripped me.

When I knocked, a tired woman answered his ex-wife, the mother of those three daughters.

Yes? she asked, eyes wary.

Im Julia, his wife, I replied quietly. Id like a word, if I may.

Her expression hardened, though only for a moment. With a weary sigh, she opened the door wider and let me in. The house was spotlessly clean but nearly bare. There was little furniture, almost nothing to suggest ease or comfort plainly, they made do with next to nothing.

What do you want? she asked, folding her arms tight across her chest.

I want the truth. He tells me he sends you money every month. Is it so?

She gave a bitter laugh.

Money? We havent seen even a shilling in over a year. I keep us afloat with my wages cleaning houses, and my mothers pension. Their father has left us quite alone.

The floor seemed to shift beneath me. At that moment a young girl, perhaps seven, drifted into the room pale-faced, tangled hair framing eyes far too sad for her age. The sleeves of her cardigan hung loose, threadbare and patched.

Mum, Im hungry, she whispered.

My heart felt caught in a vice. Here I was, living in a spacious house surrounded by comforts and extravagance, while these children scrimped for daily bread.

Where are the other two? I asked softly.

At school. Theyll be home in about an hour.

Right, I said, voice firmer, standing up straight. Go collect them. Were all going shopping.

What? I cant let you do that…

Im not asking your permission, I replied coolly but kind. This isnt charity this is what should have been theirs all along.

We drove to the nearest High Street. I bought all three girls warm clothes, shoes, coats, and new schoolbags. I watched their faces shine as they slipped on dresses and jumpers, saw smiles blossom that simultaneously broke my heart and healed it. I didnt forget their mother I bought her the small things too: a new coat, shampoo, some of the basics that help restore dignity.

I dont know what to say, she murmured through tears. Thank you.

Dont thank me. This is only the beginning.

That evening, when I returned home, he was in the lounge with his feet up, eyes fixed on the television. Calm, utterly at ease, as though he didnt have three daughters living in want.

Where have you been? he asked, barely glancing my way.

I met your daughters. The ones you claim to support.

His face turned ashen and he leapt up.

I can explain

I dont want your explanations, I interrupted, cold anger rising in my chest. I want you to pack your things. Now.

What? This is my home!

No. This is MY house. In my name, bought with the inheritance from MY family. I want you out. Tonight.

Please, lets talk about this

I told you to start packing. If you dont, I will.

I went upstairs, took out his suitcases, and filled them with his clothes. He followed, pleading, but my patience was gone. When I finished, I hauled his belongings out to the front lawn and left them there.

Tomorrow, Ill be contacting my solicitor, I told him at the door. Ill see to it that you start providing for your daughters, even if it means I cover every last penny you owe.

He stood in the garden, surrounded by his scattered things, looking strangely small.

I closed the door and leaned against it, shaking. It was the hardest and yet simplest decision I ever made.

I still wonder, looking back from all these years ahead: did I do right, sending him away so abruptly? Should I have given him a chance to explain?