My husband vanishes between work and his mother, while I drown in loneliness…
For over a year now, I’ve felt like I live alone. No, officially, I’m married—I have a child, a home—but my husband… he’s simply never here. He’s either working late or disappearing into his mother’s flat. The worst part? He doesn’t see a problem with it. Not an ounce of sympathy, no hint of understanding. To him, everything’s fine: he works, helps his mum, and comes home just to sleep.
Friends keep saying, *”Hang in there, once maternity leave ends, things will get better.”* But I know it’s not about maternity leave. I’ve simply stopped turning a blind eye. I see it now. Before, I made excuses for him: *he’s tired, his job’s demanding*. But now… now I watch my family crumbling, slowly but surely.
We live in Manchester, in an ordinary two-bed flat. I’m on maternity leave with our little boy. My husband, James, works for a big logistics firm—he recently got promoted. Ever since, he’s practically vanished from our lives. He comes home close to midnight, leaves before dawn, and on days off? His mother’s place is his second address.
Margaret, his mum, started pulling him over with excuses the moment our son was born: *the sink’s leaking, the door’s stuck, the sockets need fixing*. Fine, if it were occasional. But it’s constant. Then, a few months ago, she suddenly decided she needed renovations. *Right now*, when James is swamped with work after his promotion. And guess who’s paying for it? My husband. Us? We’re left scraping by on what’s left after bills. Child benefit? A joke—it doesn’t even cover half the nappies.
When James had holiday time, he suggested doing the renovations then. But she refused: *”It’s fine as it is, don’t bother.”* Now? It’s an *emergency*—the wallpaper’s peeling, the ceiling’s uneven… So now, every weekend, he’s at her place. Same routine: *”I’ll just pop round for a bit.”* Comes back past midnight. I don’t even know who the main woman in his life is anymore—me or his mum.
Margaret asks about her grandson… through James. Never once has she checked in with me, offered to help, or dropped by to give me a break. But she’s full of demands: *”James, love, don’t forget to come over—the tiles need sorting, then the cupboard doors.”*
I’m exhausted. Exhausted from being alone with a husband who’s alive but absent. Exhausted watching our son reach for his dad, only for James to walk straight past, shower in silence, eat, and collapse into bed. I’ve tried talking to him—explaining we need a *family*, not endless approval-seeking from his mother. He just waves me off:
*”I’m not out with other women, am I? I bring home money. What more do you want? Should I quit my job?”*
Yes, he brings money. But money—I can earn myself. What I *can’t* do is give my son a father who’s always “busy” at Grandma’s. I don’t need a cash machine. I need a husband. A partner. A friend. A father for our boy.
So here I sit, in this flat, surrounded by toys and nappies and never-ending fatigue. Feeling abandoned. Forgotten. Alone. Even with a wedding ring on my finger.
