I’ve been married for four years, and the whole time, I’ve been the one keeping us afloat.
I’m 32, living in Manchester, and somehow, I’ve spent four years wed to a man who feels more like a very expensive pet than a partner. My husband, Nigel—older than me by eight years—hasn’t lifted a financial finger since we said, “I do.” Today, I finally cracked and asked him to contribute. Instead of opening his wallet, he opened his mouth—to lecture me on gratitude before threatening to pack his bags. My life’s turned into a bad telly drama, and honestly, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep tuning in.
Nigel and I have been married four years, yet I’ve never once felt cherished or secure. He was married before—has a daughter from that mess—and when his first marriage imploded, he moved back in with his parents. While dating me, he swore he was staying at his mate Dave’s place. Turns out, Dave didn’t exist, but I ignored the red flag, thinking love would iron out the wrinkles. Nigel works in sales for some big firm, and according to him, it’s the most stressful job on earth. His solution? Screaming at me like I’m his personal stress ball. Support? Affection? Might as well ask for a unicorn.
Whenever life’s thrown me a curveball, Nigel’s response has been the same: grab his duffel and flee to his mum’s. Last time, I cracked after a week and begged him to come back. We live in my flat—the one I bought before we married—and I cover every bill, every grocery run. Nigel? Claims he’s saving for our “dream cottage” in the Lake District, where we’ll apparently live in bliss. Four years in, and I’ve yet to see a single pound toward this fantasy. At this rate, I’ll be retired before we even get a garden shed.
Last winter, the heating bill went through the roof, and I finally asked Nigel to chip in. He promised he would. A month later—nothing. I hit my limit. I can’t keep bankrolling a grown man who treats my wallet like his personal ATM. What if we have kids? Will they need part-time jobs just to feed their dad? Ridiculous! At the end of the month, I confronted him: “Are you paying your share or not?” Cue the dramatics—accusations of ingratitude, the grand suitcase-packing routine, the usual threats to leave.
Why does he do this? What did I do to deserve a marriage that feels like a never-ending babysitting gig? My patience is threadbare, but every time he storms out and slinks back, it chips away at me a little more. Four years of this, and I’m barely holding it together. How much longer before I’m the one walking out for good?
