I was planted by the kitchen window, staring at the black night through the glass while my halfempty whisky did its best to keep me warm. The clock ticked like a metronome, each second stretching out as if it wanted to make a point.
Emily was late. Far later than fashionably late.
Then the streetlights caught the headlights of a sleek black sedan and it pulled up in front of our terraced house in Croydon. My chest tightened. Behind the wheel was a tall, selfassured stranger in a crisp suit.
The passenger door swung open and out stepped Emily. A cold shiver raced down my spine.
She gave a light, easy grin, leaned in, whispered something and the man chuckleda soft, almost conspiratorial laugh. Then she shut the door and walked back inside, oblivious to the storm brewing inside my head.
My blood boiled. Who was this man? How long had this been going on? Was this the first time?
Emily entered, tossed her handbag onto the kitchen table as if it were a feather, and I asked, Who was that?
She stopped dead, stared at me, and said, What?
This guy in the carwho is he?
She sighed, fed up, and replied, Thomas, not again Hes Julies husband. He just gave me a lift, thats it. Are you serious?
I couldnt hear a word beyond the low, seething roar in my ears. A hot headache, a torrent of dark thoughts, and before I could stop it, my hand flew up.
The slap cracked through the room. Emily recoiled, her hand flying to her face, a thin line of blood trickling from her nose. The silence that followed was worse than any argument.
She stared at me, eyes wide with fear, and I felt a knot tighten in my throat. Id crossed a linea line I could never uncross.
She didnt scream, didnt weep. She simply slipped on her coat and left.
The next morning a bailiff handed me divorce papers. Id lost everything, even my son.
Ive put up with your jealousy for years, Emily said in our final conversation, her voice as cold as ice, but Ill never tolerate violence.
I begged her forgiveness, swore it was a momentary lapse, a 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 boy. A lie. A vicious lie that sealed my fate. I had never raised a hand to him, never shouted at him. Yet who believes a man whos already struck his wife?
The magistrate didnt blink. She granted Emily sole custody. I got a few hours a week, supervised in a neutral setting. No nights at home, no mornings making him cereal.
For six months my life was reduced to those thin slices of time when my fiveyearold sprinted to me, laughing, his tiny arms looping around my neck, only to be taken away again and again.
Then one afternoon, while he was pushing his toy cars across the kitchen table, he said in that innocent voice of a child:
Dad, mum wasnt home last night. There was a lady with me.
My heart stopped. A lady? Which lady? I asked, trying to keep calm.
I dont know. She comes when mum goes out at night.
A chill ran up my spine. Where does she go?
He shrugged. She doesnt tell me.
My fingers clenched. I needed answers. When I finally dug into it, I discovered Emily had hired a nannya stranger from abroadto look after our son while she was out.
I grabbed my phone and called her.
Why is a foreign nanny looking after our boy when Im right here? I demanded.
Her voice was flat, icy. Because its easier.
Easier?! My anger roared. Im his father! If he cant be with you, he should be with me!
She sighed. Thomas, Im not going to drive across town every time I have an appointment. Stop making everything about you.
My phone trembled in my hand. What could I do? Sue her? Fight for full custody?
What if I lost everything again? One more slipup, one more foolish moment, and Id be left with nothing.
But not my son. I wont let him slip away. Ill fight, because hes the only thing I have left.
