Dad cheating on Mum cost me my privileged private education – but, in a strange way, I owe my success to his fracturing of the family

When I was twelve, I would sit hunched at the top of the stairs and listen to my parents argue late into the night.

The next day, when Dad took me to school – a selective private all-girls school twenty minutes from our house – he told me that he and Mom had grown apart. There were rumors that he was seen with a blonde.

I feared they would divorce, but it hadn’t occurred to me that if their marriage ended, so would my privileged education.

I was happy at that school. There were only 90 students that year, and it was a beautiful building, centuries old, in picturesque grounds. It had all the facilities you could wish for: extensive sports fields; art studios; our own theater. We did ballet and also sang in the chamber choir.

Uniform rules were strict. Our skirts had to reach below the knee, and during assembly we all had to kneel so that the teachers could check that they were the correct length.

They also had strict rules about presentation: our work had to be neat and color-coordinated, and we were taught to lay out the pages in a certain way.

They were brilliant at emotional wellbeing, and the teaching was excellent. There was a focus on academic performance and who was in which set.

However, the friendship groups were quite cutthroat, with a lot of competition and cattiness. The most popular girls were the sportier ones, and I wasn’t sporty.

But that was okay, I had my family. Dad and I had always been close. I’m an only child and I was a daddy’s girl. He said he would stay and make it work. Then Mom discovered he was having an affair with a co-worker. She also found Viagra in his briefcase.

My father left on my thirteenth birthday and didn’t return.

Nine months later I got an email from him saying, “This is my wife, and here’s a picture of your new sister.” Until then I hadn’t realized that his new relationship was serious. I haven’t had anything to do with him since I’m 23 now.

It was a messy, expensive divorce. When our lawyers started investigating the finances, we discovered that Dad had secretly racked up half a million pounds in debt. For the past twelve years, he had been forging Mom’s signature to take credit cards. He had also taken out loans on our £700,000 house.

It was a lovely place, dating back to Tudor times – chocolate box, with a thatched roof, close to a river, and you could hear the church bells from our split-level garden. It had a willow tree and two ponds, and my Wendy house at the back of it, from when I was a kid.

We had to sell our house and downsize. Just a year earlier we had enjoyed wonderful family holidays in Bali and Italy. Now Mom and I had absolutely no money, because we had to accept handouts from friends. The bills came in and Dad didn’t pay anything.

He demanded a 70/30 split of the £200,000 left over from the house sale, as well as the dog. We said, ‘You’re not getting the dog!’ Luckily a friend was a top lawyer and he fought to get us enough money to make a small payment for social housing – otherwise we would have been homeless.

But my father refused to pay child support or the £12,000 annual school fees, so my mother couldn’t afford to keep me there. She was not working at the time, although she soon got a full-time job. She spoke to the director and asked if they could keep me at a fair. But no, Dad already owed the school £3,000, and still does, as far as I know.

A month and a half later I had to leave. I was so ashamed that I didn’t tell my friends until the day before the Easter holidays. “I’m really sorry,” I said, “I’m not coming back.”

So at the beginning of the summer semester I went to my local public school. It would have been nerve-wracking, but luckily all my friends from primary school were there.

Her first experience with secondary public education was a ‘culture shock’, witnessing another student argue with a teacher before turning the desk [stock image]

Still, the state school was a culture shock. For my first class, I walked in and stood behind my chair, because at my private school we weren’t allowed to sit until the teacher did. My friend hissed in horror, “What are you doing?! Sit down! Sit down!’

Then a girl got into a fight with the teacher and turned the desk over. There were some scary fights on the playground, but some of the teachers were even scarier.

But I was lucky. Shortly after I joined, there was a change of principal and a complete overhaul of the school. We received additional financing and were given our own AstroTurf field and swimming pool. There was additional GCSE teaching from the teachers. I have always loved drama and campaigned to have our own theater built – at public school we used the village hall.

I stayed there until sixth form and eventually became head girl. It was brilliant. I got good grades, went to university and am now on a scholarship at a prestigious drama school. But I’m not surprised that the majority of people on my course were privately educated. I had friends at a private school whose parents paid extra fees to prepare for drama school auditions or funded £25,000 Master of Arts courses to improve their chances.

My private school also had great connections in the acting world. One student – ​​now a very high-profile actor – got a contract for her first TV series because our drama teacher knew the casting director, so she came in and auditioned some girls.

That networking opportunity would never happen on my extended one. It makes me all the more determined to succeed in this industry. It’s hard coming from a public school, you don’t get the same benefits. I still get asked surprisingly often: ‘Where did you go to school?’

Everyone in my core friendship group went to private school, and they all know which is which. That discussion took place in week two of drama school. The conversation comes up more than I expected.

But I don’t regret switching from private to state education. It makes me feel like a more complete person. I get on with anyone, from any background, and because it was just my mother and I, I got a job at the local theater when I was fifteen. I also washed cars. I am proactive and can take care of myself. Mom says I never rebelled, I just kept going.

And what about my father? Two years after the divorce he emailed me pictures of his new family and life, and also sent me a £70 voucher for clothes, which I returned. He has since had another child and moved to Dubai.

Oddly enough, I saw it a few years ago while driving down the highway. He followed my car, overtook me on the inside and made a rude gesture as he passed, not realizing it was me.

I don’t feel like contacting him. I don’t miss him and I can’t forgive his betrayal of me and mom. But everything I’ve been through—moving from private to public school, losing my home and my father—made me grow up quickly and leave me a tough cookie, well prepared for the outside world.

As strange as it may sound, I am grateful to my father for what he did.