Emily, 35
In the 15 years I’ve been with my husband, Matthew, I never imagined opening the front door to the police. As far as I was concerned, we had an ordinary marriage – we met at university, went travelling after graduation and returned home to build our careers. I trained in safeguarding, while he studied to be an engineer. I thought we were so lucky. Ours was a comfortable, middle-class life in an affluent English market town in the south – we enjoyed holidays and had a busy social life, with lots of friends. I’m a bit of an introvert, but my husband’s more popular – the sort who goes out of his way to help other people who might be struggling.
We got married seven years ago and our son was born four years later. I had postnatal anxiety and my husband went above and beyond to support me and help me get therapy. I felt we had a really strong relationship and we never rowed. The only thing that drove me mad was he came to bed so much later than me; he always said, “I’m just a night owl” and I assumed he was working or watching films. We also had a few issues with our sex life, which I put down to my gynaecological pain. Now I know it wasn’t just me.
I’ll never forget “the knock” – that’s what families like mine call the moment police officers turn up and your world collapses. It was 6.20am one Friday in January 2023 when the doorbell rang. Matthew said, “It’s probably just a delivery” but I thought it couldn’t be at that time and went to see. There were three plainclothes police officers standing there. My first thought was that someone had died.
One officer said they needed to speak to my husband. I asked to see their badges – I was playing for time, trying to get my head around the fact that the police were at my door, asking for Matthew. I had no idea what it could be about. He’d been stressed at work lately and elements of his job were dangerous. Had he made a mistake?
I called up and he came downstairs in his dressing gown. I was shaking by this point and desperately trying to get him to make eye contact, but he wouldn’t. That’s when I knew he’d done something wrong. He walked into the living room and an officer closed the door.
After a few minutes, a policeman put his head out and said my husband had something to tell me. He was crying and hyperventilating as he said, “They think I’ve been looking at images of children on the internet.”
It was a gut punch. At the same time as being utterly shocked, seeing the pain in his face was heartbreaking. Even worse, because of my work background, I knew that what he was telling me was likely to be true.
Still, I was weirdly calm. I wasn’t crying or shouting, I kept trying to look at Matthew, but he was struggling to make eye contact. So I just replied, “OK.” I was in shock and couldn’t find any words.
The police explained that American investigators had closed a dark website and our IP address had pinged up as having accessed it. I paid the bill, so it was in my name, but one officer said, “It’s almost always the man, that’s why we’re arresting your husband – unless you’re going to confess.” That was terrifying because I thought, “I know I’ve not done this, but I don’t know how to prove it.” Like most couples, we shared devices at times and he’d never seemed to worry about passwords or me picking up his phone. I also knew I was at risk of losing my job, so I was scared of saying the wrong thing.
They started pulling everything out of our cupboards, searching for old devices and asking me for passwords I couldn’t remember. I felt embarrassed about the pile of laundry on our bedroom floor. But mostly I was just wandering about in shock, muttering, “This can’t be real.”
I remember mouthing to Matthew, “Have you?” He kept repeating, “It’ll be OK, it’ll be OK.” That confirmed for me that he had done it, otherwise he’d have just said no. When our son woke up, I took him downstairs and tried to play with him so he wouldn’t see the house being torn apart. Then, in the middle of the chaos my mum turned up, as she was meant to be babysitting that day. She immediately thought it must be a terrible mistake and kept saying, “Your husband’s a lovely man.” That only made it harder, because I knew the police wouldn’t have come without clear evidence.
They confiscated about 20 devices, then they were gone with my husband. The rest of the day is a blur. I’m glad my son was there, as that made me go into practical mode. I rang a helpline I knew about through my work but probably wouldn’t have thought to call had the police not given me a leaflet. That was the most helpful thing they did that day. The person on the line was really kind, but also gave me a much-needed reality check: that the police would probably find illegal images. That was what I needed to hear to start preparing, mentally.
The officers drove my husband back a few hours later. His bail conditions meant no unsupervised access to under-18s and no overnight stays. We went for a walk while my parents looked after our son and that’s when the truth came out. It was absolutely shocking. He told me he’d been using pornography for years and it had escalated. He’d stumbled across the images and was repulsed, but had been drawn back. He said he hadn’t looked at them for four years. He was in huge distress.
The police had advised us not to tell anyone, such is the stigma around these crimes, but we felt we needed our parents’ support. Matthew didn’t feel able to tell his, so I made the call – the worst of my life. They couldn’t believe it – after all, this was their amazing son, the first person in the family to go to university. I also had to ring my boss because I knew I’d need to be referred for investigation, as I work with children.
I was devastated but also very upset for my husband because I could see he was disgusted with himself. I didn’t really feel angry, I’m not sure why. I think I was just bereft at what we had lost as a family. I also felt horror on behalf of the victims. I’ve seen the impact of abuse, so finding out it was going on in my own home was horrendous. On the flipside, because of my work, I knew this behaviour didn’t necessarily come from a primary sexual interest in children, but could reflect a porn addiction. Still, I needed space to understand whether Matthew posed a risk to our son. I felt as if the last 15 years had been a lie.
It was a miserable time: most of our days were spent trying to book him a hotel room for that night, until we found a long-term rental. I had to tell my son’s nursery. I couldn’t eat. Social services visited and I signed myself off work for a month, but Matthew initially didn’t tell his boss (he wasn’t legally obliged to unless they asked) and went back after a few days. This gave me hope: I’d been afraid he’d take his own life after finding a rope in his hotel room. I told him about the harm inflicted on the children of people who do that, which was probably cruel but it did seem to give him a kick – he likes data and facts, so the message got through. It was incredibly hard to deal with, but we tried to have as many honest, raw conversations as possible. I also made plans: ensuring he spent time with our son every day, even though I couldn’t leave them alone for a second and it felt totally draining.
After a couple of months, I decided I wasn’t ready to give up. I told myself the decision to stay could always be changed – if something else happened or it wasn’t working, we could separate. There was nothing to lose.
He was on bail for seven months. The police found seven images on our devices: five category A, the most serious, and two Category B, with an age range between six and 14. It was devastating. It took another two months for him to be charged and his plea hearing and sentencing were a month after that.
I’ve been in court a lot, but it’s different when it’s your own family. Seeing him looking so small and pale was awful, and I remember holding my mother-in-law’s hand and shaking. It really brought home the consequences of his actions and it was awful to hear people describe what he’d done and argue he should go to prison. In the end he got a three-year community order and 100 hours of community service, and was put on the sex offender register for five years. He was fired from his job the same day – that felt like the last shred of our old life had gone.
By now, I’d sold our dream home – a year after we’d bought it, which was heart-wrenching – and moved closer to our parents. I can’t believe how supportive they were. My mum initially called him a few names, but then they sat down and had an honest conversation and now have a really good relationship, which still surprises me.
The move was also to ensure that if the case went public, nobody would know us. Matthew changed his name, which the government is about to ban, but our family has a unique surname and I was terrified we’d be identifiable. I couldn’t face any more humiliation.
At the start of this year, my husband was given the all clear to move in with us. Life looks very different now. He’s found manual work, but we’re struggling: after legal fees and hotel bills, we’re £45,000 out of pocket. At one point, he was using food bank vouchers.
The only other people who know about the conviction are his sibling, my boss and two friends. It feels like living a lie and I struggle to meet up with people I’ve known for years, as I can’t be honest. We have no idea whether we’ll need to explain it to our son in the future.
We’re both secondary victims. I probably have some PTSD – we had to change the doorbell ringtone after the police raid because every time it went off, I couldn’t cope. I’ll have some therapy when I feel ready and we can afford it. My son won’t have the lifestyle we promised him when I got pregnant. I wouldn’t have knowingly had a child in this situation. There’s a lot of guilt.
The big question is whether I can trust my husband. I still get intrusive thoughts: “Has he ever done anything to our son? Could he have a secret device?” We have an app that monitors his online activity and sends me a weekly report, flagging anything suspicious. We have joint bank accounts and a video monitor in my son’s room. That might sound controlling but it’s less about me keeping tabs than him being accountable for his actions.
I know people might struggle to understand this, but our marriage is stronger than ever. We communicate better and make time to talk about our feelings. Before, Matthew was a saviour-type person, always wanting to help other people and never really telling me how he was feeling. I naively thought he must have greater resilience than me. And of course that’s not true.
We’re not there in terms of physical closeness yet. I didn’t want to touch him sexually for a long time and became paranoid about what he might be attracted to. That’s a work in progress.
What’s really helped is the Lucy Faithfull Foundation putting me in touch with six other women in my situation. This journey is incredibly lonely for a partner because there are so few people you can talk honestly to; you are mostly left to struggle on alone – it felt like a bereavement, except one you can’t tell anyone about.
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I just wish he’d got help sooner. I think most women don’t realise how much it’s going on. In 2022, police arrested 850 people every month for online sexual offending, while a new report says adult pornography often serves as a gateway to viewing sexual images of children. A lot of these men aren’t monsters. They’re normal people who’ve got sucked into something. If my husband can be guilty of that, anybody can.
‘The fear of being found out was constant’
Matthew, 36
The first time I looked at porn was on the family computer, when I was 12. Sex was talked about a lot in the playground but, growing up in a Catholic family, it wasn’t spoken about at home and I was curious. In my teens, I got a PC in my bedroom so that I could do my homework. It was the late 90s – back then, most parents were naive about what we might have access to online.
At university, it became a serious issue. I had a lot of spare time and hadn’t been very successful in romantic relationships. Porn became a crutch and whenever I got stressed, I’d use it to make myself feel better. That carried on when I met Emily and by the time we were married, I was watching up to five times a day. The minute she left the house or went to bed, my first thought would be, “Great, I can look at porn now.”
I became desensitised to what I was seeing and dissociated from the people in the images. Before long, basic porn wasn’t doing it any more and I started looking at gay porn to get a hit, then at more extreme stuff. I tried to be careful with my devices, never storing anything on them and watching in private mode so there was no history. But the terror was always there that I might not have hidden my behaviour as well as I thought.
I didn’t go on to the dark web looking for porn – I’d seen something on the news about it and thought I’d have a nose. But it was like opening Pandora’s box – your moral conscience is saying, “Don’t do it” but the addict’s brain is saying, “You could get a hit from this.”
The first time I viewed illegal images was horrendous. I closed it down, thinking, “Never again.” Unfortunately, I went back. It was always for short periods, then I’d delete everything to stop myself accessing it. But after a couple of months I’d look again. The guilt was extreme.
After a year, I made the decision to stop and in 2019 I bought a new laptop. I promised myself I’d never install dark web software on it, and I’ve stayed off ever since.
Even so, the fear of being found out was constant. Every time the doorbell went, I’d think, “Is this the day my life ends?” After four years, I was starting to think everything was going to be OK. Then the knock came.
When they asked if I’d ever been on the dark web, I said yes and they arrested me. Then they made me tell my wife, which was a nice twist of the knife. I was taken away in an unmarked car – at least that kept it as inconspicuous as three people raiding a house can be. I’d never been in a police station, let alone a cell. It was traumatic and I went into a spiral of shame and fear. All I could think was that my family would be better off without me. I had a life insurance policy through work, so I figured I was worth more to them dead than alive.
I came very close to doing it. The only thing that stopped me was it was my dad’s birthday that weekend and it didn’t seem fair on him. Then the Lucy Faithfull helpline opened on Monday and I was able to talk to someone. They stress you’re not a bad person, you’ve just made bad decisions – that probably saved my life.
We tried to keep things as normal as possible for my son, so I’d go round every morning before he woke up, come back for bedtime and leave once he’d fallen asleep. He didn’t notice the difference, but I was shattered: trying to live a normal life with 24/7 supervision is hard.
Around this time, Emily and I separated for about a month. I’ve got no doubt I damaged her trust, but I think she knew I wouldn’t abuse our son. I still don’t know how she came to the decision to stick it out. I was trying to convince her to end things, because it was easier to push her away than to see her crumble because of me.
My parents have always been amazing, but I never expected my in-laws to be so supportive. Obviously they were shocked and there were angry discussions at first. Being raised Catholic, you don’t talk about this stuff and so to suddenly be expected to tell people about your darkest secret is a challenge. But I knew the only way I could rebuild trust was by being completely open.
My biggest worry was that my parents wanted to be in court. I had to make it clear to them that there would be things said that they might not want to hear. They had blamed themselves and watching them trying to support me was really difficult. I’ll never forget my mum’s face as she attempted to be strong.
There’s a sort of dehumanisation that happens in the court system. Suddenly going from being a person to a criminal was a shock.
But my case was helped by the fact that I’d had so much therapy and done the Inform Plus course, which rehabilitates people who have committed online offences by looking at how you got to where you are, the impact on your loved ones and how you can live a more balanced life. I tried to see being arrested as an opportunity to get help, and the judge could see I was doing everything I could to make up for what I’d done.
It also forced me to think properly about the victims. When you’re offending, you’re desensitised and just see an image; you don’t consider what’s really going on. Something I hadn’t thought about is the re-victimisation that happens every time someone watches a video or looks at a photo. I can’t imagine how difficult that must be to know your abuse is still happening years later.
Being on the sex offender register and under probation has a huge impact on my life. I have to inform them if I go away. I’m not allowed to work with young people. I’m on the waiting list for the Prison Service’s Horizon rehabilitation programme for online sex offenders, but it’s really oversubscribed in some areas.
When I first stopped watching porn, I went through full-on withdrawal because I’d got hooked on the hit. But it’s changed my life: I have so much more time and a normal sexual relationship, where I’m not striving for something unrealistic. Now, if I feel I want to watch porn, I think, “That’s not the best decision.” As with any addiction, you’ve got to look at the underlying issues. When I get stressed, I talk to my therapist. Dog walks are great. I’ve put an end to mindless internet scrolling and that’s the biggest safety factor for me.
But I still live in fear of being found out by friends, colleagues or the press. People immediately think you’re a danger. It’s isolating and means I’ve lost friendships; you look at which you can maintain easily, by glossing over the truth, and step away from those that would require honesty. There’s no requirement to disclose I’m on the register to anyone other than the police, but we worry my son’s school might be told when he starts there. That could make our worst fears come true.