We got divorced because my wife refuses to cook
The other day, my husband and I had such a massive row that I kicked him out. Now he’s living with his mum in Burton-upon-Trent while I try to pick up the pieces after ten years of marriage that turned into a nightmare. My mother-in-law is furious, blowing up my phone begging me to take her “poor little boy” back, but I couldn’t care less what she thinks. I’m done being a servant in my own home.
Even my own mum didn’t back me up:
“Olivia, have you lost your mind? You’ll be stuck raising Sophie alone! Why are you making James out to be the bad guy? He’s a decent bloke—doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you, brings home the money!”
I married James when I was barely 20, just a naive girl who believed in fairy-tale love. Thanks to my gran, I already had my own flat, so it wasn’t like I came empty-handed. My parents split when I was young, but my dad and his side of the family never abandoned me. His mum even helped me get the place. That’s where James and I moved in after the wedding. He had nothing—just a share in his mum’s three-bed—but I didn’t care. Back then, I thought love was enough.
Six months in, I got pregnant. Our little girl, Sophie, was born just after I turned 21. After maternity leave, I couldn’t land another job—who’d hire someone with a toddler constantly catching every bug going? “You’ve got a daughter? Sorry, not a good fit,” I heard over and over. No one could help—not my in-laws, not my own family—so I was stuck at home, drowning in nappies, cooking, and cleaning.
James worked in the next town over, came home late, and we barely saw each other. Every single chore fell on me. He wouldn’t even take the bins out, let alone wash a plate. I never dared nag him—he was the one working, right? I blamed myself, tried to be perfect, ran myself ragged to keep him happy. But then the complaints started:
“Must be nice lounging about all day! Couldn’t even bother job-hunting? Look at the state of this place!”
His words cut deep. I felt like a burden, like I was failing. So I tried harder—cooked, cleaned, practically waited on him hand and foot. But the money rows kept coming. James moaned about how hard it was supporting us, and his mum piled on: “My son’s exhausted, and it’s all your fault!”
I cracked and found a job. Rushed like mad—dropped Sophie at nursery, raced to the office, then picked her up from Mum’s after. My salary was decent, actually better than his. But nothing changed at home. Two weeks in, he blew up again:
“Fridge is empty! No dinner ready! Why should I have to take the bins out after work?”
“Oh, so I should drag our kid to nursery with a bin bag, should I?” I snapped back.
James would fetch Sophie from Mum’s and wait for me. I’d stumble home by 8, shattered, with no energy for fancy meals—quick dinners, sometimes ready-made. But James wasn’t having it:
“Other women manage just fine—what’s your excuse?”
“Other men earn enough not to whinge!” I shot back. “If we’re both working, we split the chores—simple!”
I was earning more, but the housework was still all on me. James insisted cooking and cleaning were “women’s work,” and he wasn’t about to lower himself. He’d bring up his dad: “Now there’s a real man!” I lost it:
“Your dad bought his own house, not leech off his wife! If you’re so unhappy, move back to Mum’s!”
He packed his stuff and left. Cue his mum’s endless calls: “People will talk! Think of Sophie!” But I don’t care about gossip. I’m done being a doormat for someone who doesn’t appreciate me. Sophie’s with me, and we’ll manage. Still, sometimes I wonder—how did I let it get this bad? Love blinded me, but now I see it clear: I deserve better.
