I decided not to tell my husband I’d started earning more. He got upset, packed his bags, and went to stay with his mum.
When I made the choice to keep my pay rise from him, it wasn’t easy for me either. But I did it deliberately—not out of spite or greed, just exhaustion. From the constant ups and downs—one week living it up, the next three scraping by on beans on toast. From the irresponsibility. From the carefree attitude my husband, James, inherited from his mother.
James and I met at a friend’s party. He won me over with his easygoing charm, his charisma, the way he never let problems weigh him down. I’m the complete opposite—everything’s under control, I take responsibility for it all, I fret over every penny. Back then, I thought, *Maybe this is exactly what I need—someone lighthearted*.
But after the wedding, reality hit. His “lightheartedness” was just immaturity. Payday was a celebration—fancy meals out, shopping sprees, gifts for his mum, his mates, anyone who’d take them. By the next day? Skint. Then a month of pasta and empty promises that “things will get better.”
James earns decent money, but it slips through his fingers—especially when his mum gets involved. She’s dramatic, demanding, just as reckless. The second her pension ran out, she’d call him: *”I’m bored, I’m miserable, I’m sick of being broke.”* And of course, James would rush to her rescue.
*”She’s my mum. I can’t just abandon her.”*
*”And what about us?”* I’d ask.
*”We’ll manage. We always do.”* He’d smile.
Meanwhile, our house was falling apart. Literally. Peeling wallpaper, leaky taps, a fridge that rattled like a train. I patched things up, kept quiet, simmered with frustration. I tried talking to James—he’d listen, then carry on like he was living alone.
Then, one day, I got a proper pay rise. A big one. It was a win—months of late nights, stress, proving to my boss I could handle the project. I came home buzzing—and… I didn’t tell him. I just couldn’t.
I could picture it—him and his mum splurging on nonsense, jetting off on some last-minute holiday, leaving us back to counting pennies. No. I stayed quiet. This money was for the house, a proper car, a real holiday. Something lasting.
I bought myself a new laptop—my old one was hanging by a thread. Told James it was a work perk. Paid for his dental treatment—lied, said it was covered by insurance. All for peace. For our future. For us.
Everything was fine… until my tipsy boss let slip at the work do in front of James:
*”At this rate, we’ll have to promote you again! You’ve been running that department for six months already…”*
James froze.
*”What department? What ‘again’?”* he asked once we left.
I knew the jig was up. Admitted I’d been promoted.
*”And the pay?”* His voice was icy.
*”Same for now.”* Another lie.
But at home, he kept at it. Straight out asked:
*”Why didn’t you tell me? Ashamed of how you got the job?”*
It felt like a slap. I was furious, hurt, disgusted. I snapped. Told him everything. About the money. The exhaustion. His mum. How he burned through every quid. How terrified I was of the future. That I just wanted stability.
He listened in silence. Then went to the bedroom. An hour later, he came out with a bag.
*”I’m going to Mum’s. Need to think.”*
Three days of silence. No call, no text. But his mum rang—shouting, accusing, demanding. I hung up. I’m done listening to her. Her voice is the root of every problem.
I’m not texting James. Not calling. Yes, it hurts. But it’d hurt more to step on the same rake again. If he wants to come back, he can apologise first—for the lies, the jabs, the betrayal when all I wanted was to save us.
Let him wait. I’ve got nothing to apologise for.
