My father divorced my mother in his 50s. You heard that right. Not for any profound, irreconcilable differences, but because he fell for a younger woman. At fifty-four, with my mother at fifty-two, he traded a lifetime of partnership for his secretary.
Four years ago, my dad was promoted to Director at the company where he’d worked for twenty-five years. It was a monumental achievement; we were all so proud. He started there as an intern, and now he was running the place. My mother, a force in her own right, owns a successful advertising company. It’s not as massive as Dad’s former corporation, but she’s the boss. So yes, I come from a comfortable background. As for me, I’m a 26-year-old freelance graphic designer, on the cusp of starting my own venture. I owe my career to my mom; she immersed me in the digital world early on, and by the time I left high school, I was earning thousands a week.
I wouldn’t say my parents had a perfect marriage. In recent years, they were more like business partners leading separate, flourishing careers. But it wasn’t always like that. Growing up, they were an incredible team, ambitious and full of life. I had a happy childhood. It was during my college years that I noticed them drifting apart. I assumed it was a natural phase, as I never saw them fight. Later, I learned the truth. My father had lost interest in my mom after she hit menopause, complaining her hormones were “unbearable.” His solace? He found it in his secretary. The affair began long before his promotion was official, but once he had the Director title, he got serious about her.
When my mom found out, she didn’t scream or cry. She wished him good luck and set him free. That’s my mother: sophisticated, bold, and utterly brilliant. But before she let him go, she took exactly what was hers. The house they lived in and a huge portion of Dad’s savings as alimony. She wasn’t a gold-digger; she and Dad had built that wealth together, and she wasn’t about to let a freeloader enjoy her hard-earned money.
After the divorce, Dad was left with practically nothing but his car and some savings, which he immediately started lavishing on his new love, Linda. Their divorce was smooth because Dad knew better than to fight my mother. She would have destroyed him.
Thankfully, I had already moved into my own grand two-bedroom apartment during college. My freelance work more than covered my expenses. I loved both my parents and didn’t want to choose sides. I was closer to Mom, but I respected Dad for always supporting her success.
Things went south for Dad quickly. His company had a strict no-dating-coworkers policy. He wanted to keep his relationship with Linda quiet, but she was too excited about hitting the jackpot. She told her “work bestie,” who promptly leaked the news. Both of them were fired. Dad lost his Director position because of this woman. Somewhere, my mom had the last laugh.
A few months ago, I bought my own house: a lavish three-bedroom penthouse. Last week, Dad showed up at my door with a favor to ask. He and Linda, who is 29, were getting married next month. He was jobless, trying to get new ventures off the ground, and burning through his savings. He asked if they could move in with me.
I told him I needed to think. I cherish my privacy. He assured me they wouldn’t be a bother. I discussed it with Mom, who, in her typical classy fashion, said it was my choice to make. She’s not a vindictive woman. Feeling sorry for my dad, who had always been a loving father, I eventually agreed.
They had a lavish wedding and honeymoon—I have no idea where the money came from, but I suspected Dad was lying to me about his financial state. Soon after, they moved in. Linda is a single mom to a five-year-old daughter who is a little monster. She creates chaos everywhere, an entitled brat who breaks things if she doesn’t get her way. Linda herself never looked for a job. She spent her days lounging around, gossiping with a rotating cast of friends and family she’d invite over. It was bizarre to me, having grown up with a mother who worked tirelessly. It became clear that either Dad hadn’t told her how broke he was, or he was lying to me.
My life took a wonderful turn when I met Alice, 23. She’s a vlogger, and I started out as her video editor. I fell for her, hard. She’s gorgeous, smart, and kind. After a few weeks of working together, I asked her out. We hit it off immediately and have been inseparable since. We usually hang out at her place, as she lives with her teenage sister and a menagerie of pets. Even if my house were empty, she wouldn’t have moved in, but I still hoped Dad’s business would take off so he and Linda could leave.
Linda, however, was starting to cross boundaries. She’d comment on my room being messy or my laundry needing to be done. I snapped at her to back off. I’m not one to be pushed around in my own home.
One year after they moved in, I proposed to Alice. She said yes. The situation at home, however, had deteriorated into a nightmare. Linda became a tyrant. While Dad was away on a business trip to San Francisco, she tried to order me around, demanding I do household chores—dishes, laundry, even mowing the lawn. I refused, of course. I cooked for myself and cleaned up my own messes. It was my house.
My defiance infuriated her. One day she screamed at me, calling me a “lazy bum lounging on my dad’s money.” The irony was staggering. This woman thought she was living in her husband’s house, and that I was the freeloader. The truth was the exact opposite. I wanted to confront her, to burst her delusional bubble, but I didn’t know what Dad had told her and feared it would strain their relationship. So, I endured it, practically living as a prisoner in my own bedroom to avoid her.
When Dad returned, I confronted him immediately. “I cannot share a roof with her anymore,” I told him. “She either tones it down, or she leaves.”
Dad apologized, then dropped a bomb: Linda was three months pregnant. He claimed her hormones were the problem. I remembered him divorcing my mother over her “raging menopausal hormones” and almost laughed. I told him about my engagement to Alice and that I needed privacy. He begged me for six more months, assuring me his business would be running by then. I asked him directly if he’d told Linda that the house was mine. He changed the subject. He hadn’t, and he had no intention of doing so.
The final straw came shortly after. I caught a nasty viral fever, and Alice stayed over for a few days to take care of me. Linda saw her opportunity. She cornered Alice and launched an attack on my character. She painted me as a lazy, useless man who does nothing around the house, a product of a “patriarchal upbringing.” She claimed I was just like my father, a man with “cheater’s blood,” and then lied, saying she had seen me bring other women home.
Alice defended me, but the poison had been planted. A week later, when I was recovered and went to see her, she was distant and doubtful about our future. She said she felt we were rushing things. I knew instantly it was Linda. When I pressed her, Alice confessed everything Linda had said. Alice’s concern wasn’t about money; it was about partnership. She couldn’t be with someone who would treat her like a doormat. The damage was done.
I saw red. I went home and unleashed my fury on Linda.
“What did you tell Alice?” I roared.
She just smirked at me. “The truth.”
That was it. I stormed into her room and started throwing her belongings into the living room. She hurled abuse at me, daring me to cross the line, threatening to call the cops and have me thrown out.
“Thrown out?” I gave a mad laugh, my voice echoing in the penthouse. “You have no idea where you are, do you? This is MY house! My father begged me to let you live here! Now pack your bags and get out!”
She tried to grab me, to physically drag me out. I shoved her away. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
Dad arrived home in a whirlwind, summoned by his frantic wife. He tried to pacify me, but I turned on him, too. “You made a grave mistake bringing this vile woman into our lives!”
Linda shrieked at Dad to throw me out. That’s when my father finally broke. With a defeated sigh, he told her the truth. “He’s right, Linda. The house… it’s his.”
The look on her face—shock, betrayal, fury—was almost satisfying. She called him a cheater, a liar, every name in the book. Dad pulled me aside, pleading for one last chance for Linda. “No way,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “She tried to break my engagement. She tried to ruin my life. She’s tormented me enough. You can take that woman wherever you want, but she is not staying here.”
Dad finally gave up. He packed their things while Linda cursed me, my father, and even my mother. I stayed in my room, listening to the sound of the troublemaker finally leaving my life for good.
It’s been a week. My relationship with my father is ruined, and I regret some of the words I used. But he has to understand that Alice is everything to me, and Linda tried to sabotage that.
The next day, I told my mom everything. She laughed her heart out, a glass of wine in her hand. A true woman of class. She invited Alice to dinner, and with her signature grace and honesty, she clarified everything about our family, about Dad’s supportive nature before he changed, and about how I was raised. Mom’s words were a comfort to Alice. She asked me to give Alice space, and I am. I’m hopeful things will get better. She still wears my ring.
Mom thinks Linda will soon be on the hunt again, now that she knows Dad is broke. Mom calls her a “serial chaser”—a woman who chases wealthy men. I don’t know what will happen to my dad, and frankly, I no longer feel bad for him. He made his choice. Now he has to live with it.