My brother swore he never wanted children, but his wife outmanoeuvred him.
My brother William married my best friend Emily, and now their marital drama is tearing me apart. I’m caught between them, unsure who to support—my brother, who feels deceived, or my friend, who schemed for her own happiness. Their feud in our quiet town of Ashford has become a full-blown tragedy, steeped in betrayal and bitterness.
William had two divorces behind him and two sons from previous marriages, dutifully paying child support. But fatherhood, to him, was nothing more than a financial burden. He rarely spent time with his boys, and when he met Emily, he made his stance clear: no children. “I’m done with that responsibility. I want to live for myself,” he declared, his words final. Emily, my friend since secondary school, agreed without hesitation. That worried me. She’d always dreamed of a big family, of laughter filling the house, often joking that her “biological clock was ticking.” But I never suspected deceit—never warned my brother. How wrong I was.
At first, their marriage was perfect. William glowed with happiness, convinced he’d found his ideal woman. Emily seemed content, loving, willing to abide by his terms. Then, nine months later, she dropped the bombshell: “I’m pregnant.” William was furious. “We had an agreement!” he shouted, his voice trembling with betrayal. Their home became a battleground. Emily wept; William stormed out. Eventually, he gave in—as if exhausted by the fight.
Emily gave birth to a son—the spitting image of William, with the same blue eyes and dimpled cheeks. I thought the baby would soften his heart, but my brother remained distant. He never held him, never changed a nappy, treating the child like a stranger. Emily endured it, hoping time would heal the rift. They stayed together, but the cracks in their marriage deepened.
Two years later, Emily struck again: “I’m pregnant.” William paled, his eyes burning with rage. It was no accident—she’d waited until it was too late to reconsider. I’m certain she planned it. William left, ignored her calls, crashed at his mates’ places—but always returned. Divorce? He knew it wouldn’t change a thing. The law would still hold him responsible.
Emily had a daughter—healthy, beautiful—but William refused to fetch them from the hospital. He dug in his heels: “This wasn’t my choice.” He gave no money for the children, either. On maternity leave, Emily scraped by—writing articles, ghostwriting essays for uni students. Those meagre earnings bought nappies, clothes, food. I watched her wear herself thin, but her resolve never wavered.
Then she made the move that shattered William completely. He worked a steady job, and in a year, the child support for his second son would have ended. But Emily filed for maintenance deductions through payroll—perfectly legal, even for married couples. William only found out when his pay cheque shrank. He came to me, shaking with fury: “She set me up! Planned the whole thing!” Emily hadn’t warned him—just acted, leaving him blindsided.
Now William’s trapped. Eighteen years of payments loom, and he feels utterly betrayed. Had Emily filed after the first child, he’d have divorced her without hesitation. But she played the long game—had two children first, secured her position, then pulled the trigger. My brother’s cornered, his rage boiling over.
I’m torn. Part of me understands William. He was honest from the start: no children, full stop. Emily nodded, agreed, then deceived him, crushing his dream of freedom. Her calculation chills me—this wasn’t chance; it was strategy. She got what she wanted, but at what cost? William will never forgive her. Their marriage is crumbling.
Yet I pity Emily, too. A woman’s longing for motherhood isn’t frivolous—it’s primal. William’s cruelty—abandoning her after the birth, denying his children a penny—left her desperate. Was filing for maintenance underhanded? Maybe. But did he leave her any choice? That money is for their children, and the law backs her.
What does she expect? That William will surrender, and they’ll live happily ever after? Or is she ready for the war that’ll tear them apart? I don’t know who’s right. Deceiving your husband, knowing his stance, is betrayal. But condemning your wife to childlessness, neglecting your own flesh and blood—is that any better? They’re husband and wife, yet act like sworn enemies. I look at their children—innocent, blameless—and can’t pick a side. What would you do if you were me?