The secret diary of a single parent bloke
After speaking to the credit card company and my solicitor on Friday, it seems as if I have little option but to go to the police and report what’s happened. I phoned up work to tell them why I wouldn’t be in, dropped the kids off as normal, and headed over to the police station.
As I walked towards the police station, I felt sick and dizzy. Only a year ago, we were the archetypal suburban family- I’d drive home from work along the tree-lined avenue, pull up on the drive of our traditional 1930′s semi, the front door would swing open, and out would run my two children, hugging my legs as I walked. Then the dog would come and bounce off me, and my loving wife would be waiting on the doorstep with a kiss and “how’s your day at work been, love?” And now I was walking to the police station to grass on her. I’d known her since we were 14, and we’d been together since we were 16, and yet really I didn’t know her at all. I didn’t know whether to vomit or cry.
It seemed like the longest walk I’d ever taken, even though it was only a few hundred yards. I went into the police station, and went to the desk “I need to report, erm, a crime”.
After a while, I was led into an interview room, and a WPC took a statement from me. She was nice, but a couple of times she looked up and asked “how could you not know about this?” She seemed very sympathetic, but clearly thought that I was a some sort of moron for not knowing what my wife was doing. How could I know that my outgoing letter had been intercepted and the bills re-routed. Or maybe I am a moron?
I don’t think I stopped shaking through the whole thing. I was given some information for victims of crime and went on my way. A victim. When I left the police station, I stepped out into the daylight and felt blinded, as if I’d been hit in the face.
What will happen now? They’ll go and talk to her, interview her, arrest her? Will it go to court? Could she go to prison? I felt awful.