Many years ago, my marriage crumbled because my husband refused to lift a finger in our home. We argued so fiercely one evening that I sent him packing. Now he lives with his mother in Sheffield, while I pick up the pieces of a decade-long marriage that turned to misery. His mother is beside herself, ringing me daily, begging me to take back her “poor lad,” but I’ve no patience left for her opinions. I was tired of being treated like a servant in my own house.
Even my own mother scolded me: “Emily, have you lost your senses? You’ll be left alone with a child! Why are you making James out to be a villain? He’s a decent man—doesn’t drink, doesn’t raise his hand, and brings his wages home!”
I married James when I was just twenty, foolishly believing in everlasting love. Thanks to my grandmother, I had my own flat in Manchester, so I wasn’t exactly penniless. My parents had divorced, but my father’s family never abandoned me—it was his mother who helped secure my home. James and I moved in after the wedding. He had little to his name, just a small share in his mother’s terraced house, but I thought love mattered more.
Within six months, I was expecting. Our daughter, Charlotte, was born just after I turned twenty-one. When my maternity leave ended, no employer would hire me—a young mother with a child constantly falling ill. “You have a daughter? I’m sorry, but it won’t suit,” they’d say, time and again. No one could mind Charlotte—not his family nor mine—so I was trapped, drowning in nappies, scrubbing pots, and sweeping floors.
James worked in Leeds, returning late each night, leaving me to shoulder everything. He wouldn’t even wash a dish, let alone take out the bins. I never dared complain—he was tired, he earned the money! I blamed myself, striving to be the perfect wife, spinning like a top to please him. Yet he only grew resentful. “Living the high life, aren’t you?” he’d sneer. “Just drop Charlotte at nursery and lounge about. Can’t you find work? Look at the state of us!”
His words cut deep. Guilty as charged, I redoubled my efforts—cooking, cleaning, fetching his slippers like some obedient hound. Still, rows over money grew worse. James insisted he struggled to support us, and his mother only stoked the fire: “My boy’s run ragged because of you!”
I couldn’t bear it anymore and found work. I raced through each day—nursery drop-offs, the office, collecting Charlotte from my mother’s by evening. My wage was decent, better than his. Yet home remained unchanged. Within a fortnight, he exploded again. “The fridge is empty! No supper ready! Why must I take out the rubbish after work?”
“Would you rather I marched to the nursery with a child and a bin bag?” I snapped.
James fetched Charlotte but waited idly at home. By eight, I’d return exhausted—no time for grand meals, just quick dishes or the odd ready-made. Still, he scoffed. “Other women manage fine. What’s your excuse?”
“Other men earn well and don’t whinge!” I shot back. “If we both work, why can’t chores be shared?”
Though my wage was higher, the burden stayed mine alone. James insisted cooking and cleaning were “women’s work,” unworthy of his effort. He’d praise his father—”Now there was a proper man!”—until I’d had enough.
“Your father bought his own house, not lived off his wife’s back! If this isn’t good enough, go crawl back to your mother!”
He left that night. His mother begged me to reconsider—”What will people say? Think of Charlotte!”—but gossip means nothing now. I’m done being a drudge for a man who valued neither me nor my labour. Charlotte stays with me, and we’ll manage. Yet sometimes I wonder—how did I endure it? Why did I let him treat me so? Love blinded me, but now I see clearly: I deserved better.
