I bumped into S* on a girls’ night out. We’d known each other since school, and we were both single. We swapped numbers and started seeing each other.
At the time, I was a confident, successful businesswoman with a great social life, supportive friends, and a strong relationship with my family. S had his own home, car, and business, and I admired his confidence and drive. He told me his last relationship ended badly and claimed his ex had only wanted his house. Much later, I learned her parents had taken her away due to serious concerns for her safety.
S moved in very quickly, spending all his time at my place until he simply never left. I felt overwhelmed and told him so, but he acted hurt. As a single mum, I was receiving benefits, and his moving in meant I needed to declare the change. He refused to share his income or provide details, so I lost my benefits. When I struggled financially and asked him to contribute, he belittled me. When I told him about my financial stress, he said I should have more pride.
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The emotional abuse escalated. One day, I asked him to help make the bed. He exploded—called me names and stormed off. If I asked for help, he’d snap, “What would you do if you were single?”
He became increasingly cruel, even towards my son Jack*, from a previous relationship. He called him names and mocked him. S started giving me monthly “appraisals,” rating how well I managed the house, cooked, or looked. I had to explain how I’d improve in areas he criticized.
He isolated me from friends by taking my phone and sending fake messages to sever contact. He then blocked their numbers. I have a nut allergy, which he mocked. He’d cook food he knew would make me ill, and I had several anaphylactic shocks because I wasn’t allowed to speak up at restaurants. Toward the end, I feared he might try to kill me and make it look like an accident.
The abuse got worse the two times I was pregnant- he shook me, threatened violence, shouted in my face, broke things. But he never hit me. I kept waiting for him to hit me so I could leave.
Eventually, I contacted a local domestic abuse service. I didn’t dare save the number in my phone, so I hid it in my coat pocket. S found it. When I explained, he charged at me like a rugby player and screamed, “I’ll show you domestic abuse.” I fell backwards in shock. My dog bit him and he beat my dog.
He pushed to move house, constantly showing me listings far from my family and friends. He arranged a solicitor’s meeting, filled out all the paperwork, and pressured me to sign the house equity over. His solicitor warned me to seek advice. S insisted it was the only way to secure the house. He promised to add my name to his property in return—but later laughed and said, “Do I look stupid? Everything that’s mine is mine. Everything that’s yours is mine.”
After moving, things turned violent. He dragged me by my hair, and I remember flushing a handful of it down the toilet, not knowing what else to do with it. I tried to leave multiple times. The final time, my daughter Abigail* was just 15 weeks old. That morning, he made me stand in front of a mirror, called me “disgusting” and “haggard,” then kissed my son James* goodbye, saying, “I’m sorry she’s your mum.”
I called my mum, who came with my sister to help me pack. As we left, I got a text from S: “I can see you’ve left, we need to meet to discuss the kids.” He’d secretly installed cameras in the house and had been watching me.
I moved in with my parents and eventually returned to my old house after the tenant moved out. I had no furniture, and when I went to collect it, S had boxed up everything that he was prepared to let me have.
Later, Jack’s counsellor contacted me. Jack had been physically, verbally, and sexually abused by S. Despite my better judgement, social services had decided Jack needed to spend more time with S. They started going on weekends away together, where Jack had been forced to strip, S criticized his body, and denied him privacy. When I reported it, the police dismissed it, assuming I was coaching Jack.
S continually filed for full custody of James and Abigail. Whenever I reported abuse, he countered with his own allegations, flipping the story. Eventually, he was granted nearly 50% custody. Even when the kids came home with handprints on them, he gaslit them into changing their stories. A clear handprint became a “fall off a sledge” by the time a social worker arrived.
Desperate, I reached out to my MP, Robbie Moore. Thanks to his help, S was arrested for coercive and controlling behaviour. A financial investigation revealed he’d been hiding significant income from me. Contacting my MP changed everything.
For a long time, I swore off relationships. Then I met someone who’d also survived abuse. We connected deeply. He was gentle, supportive, and incredible with my children. He stood by me through court hearings and never pressured me. We are now married with two more children of our own.
Despite everything, certain things still trigger me. If my husband gets angry at a situation—not at me—I panic. I cry and struggle to breathe. But he’s patient and kind, and I am in a loving, safe relationship.
Today, I have freedom. James and Abigail, now teenagers, have spoken up about their experiences. They’ve chosen not to see their father or his family. Their decisions have been respected, and their voices finally heard.
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