I chose not to tell my husband I’d started earning more. He took offence, packed his bags, and left for his mother’s.
Hiding the truth from him weighed on me, but I did it deliberately—not out of spite or greed, but exhaustion. The endless cycles of feast and famine—one week splurging, the next three scraping by on baked beans. The irresponsibility. The carefree attitude my husband, Oliver, had inherited from his mother.
We met at a friend’s party. He charmed me with his easygoing nature, his wit, his refusal to dwell on problems. I was his opposite—controlled, responsible, fretting over every penny. At the time, I thought, *Maybe this is what I need—someone light, unburdened.*
After the wedding, the truth settled in. His “lightness” was just immaturity. Payday was a carnival—dinners out, shopping sprees, gifts for his mum, his mates, anyone but us. The very next day? Skint. The rest of the month? Beans and empty promises that *things would get better.*
Oliver earned decently, but money slipped through his fingers—especially when his mother got involved. A dramatic, capricious woman, just as reckless. The moment her pension ran out, she’d ring him: *”I’m bored, I’m lonely, I’m tired of being poor.”* Oliver, of course, rushed to her.
*”She’s my mum. I can’t abandon her,”* he’d say.
*”And what about us?”* I’d ask.
*”We’ll manage. Somehow.”* He’d smile.
Meanwhile, our home crumbled—literally. Wallpaper peeled, pipes leaked, the fridge rattled like a tractor. I patched, painted, seethed in silence. I tried talking to him—he’d listen, then carry on as if he lived alone.
Then came my promotion. A real triumph—months of overtime, stress, proving to my boss I could lead the project. I came home glowing—and said nothing. I just couldn’t.
I pictured it—him and his mum celebrating, buying nonsense, jetting off, leaving us to scrape by again. No. I kept quiet. That money was for repairs, a car, a proper holiday. Something real.
I bought a new laptop—mine was falling apart. Told Oliver work provided it. Paid for his dentist—lied, said it was covered by insurance. All for peace. For the future. For us.
It worked until my drunk boss let slip at the Christmas party:
*”With your pace, we’ll have you higher up soon! You’ve been in management six months already…”*
Oliver froze.
*”What management? What ‘higher up’?”* he asked once we left.
I knew the jig was up. Admitted the promotion.
*”Did your pay go up?”* His eyes were cold.
*”Not yet,”* I lied again.
At home, he pressed further.
*”Why hide it? Ashamed of how you got the job?”*
It felt like a slap. Bitter, vile. I snapped. Told him everything—the money, the exhaustion, his mother, his reckless spending, my fear for tomorrow. I just wanted stability.
He listened silently. Then he went to the bedroom. An hour later, he emerged with a suitcase.
*”I’m staying with Mum. Need to think.”*
Three days of silence. No call, no text. His mother rang instead—screaming, accusing, demanding. I hung up. I won’t listen to her anymore. Her voice is the root of all this.
I won’t message Oliver. Won’t call. Yes, it hurts. But it hurts more to repeat the same mistakes. If he wants to come back, he can apologise first—for the lies, the humiliation, the betrayal when all I wanted was to save us.
Let him wait. I’ve nothing to apologise for.
