We divorced because my wife refused to cook.
The other day, my husband and I had such a blazing row that I threw him out. Now he’s holed up at his mum’s place in Crawley, while I try to piece myself back together after ten years of marriage that turned into a waking nightmare. My mother-in-law is hysterical, ringing me nonstop, begging me to take back her “poor little boy,” but I couldn’t care less what she thinks. I’m done being a maid in my own home.
Even my own mum didn’t back me up:
“Emma, have you lost the plot? You’ll be left alone with a child! Why are you badmouthing James? He’s a decent bloke—doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you, brings home the money!”
I married James when I was barely more than a girl, just twenty. Back then, I was naive, still believing in fairy-tale love. Thanks to my nan, I had my own flat—so I wasn’t some penniless bride. My parents had split, but my dad’s side of the family never abandoned me. His mum helped with the place. James and I moved in after the wedding. He had nothing—just a share in his mum’s three-bed semi—but I didn’t care. Love was enough, or so I thought.
Six months in, I got pregnant. Our little girl, Lily, was born just after I turned twenty-one. After maternity leave, I couldn’t find work. Employers took one look at me—a mum with a sickly toddler—and shut me down. “You’ve got a daughter? Sorry, not a good fit,” they’d say, over and over. No one could help: neither his mum nor mine had time to babysit. So I was stuck at home, drowning in nappies, washing-up, and hoovering.
James worked in a town over, came home late, and we barely saw each other. Every chore fell to me. He wouldn’t so much as take the bins out—couldn’t even rinse his own plate. I never dared nag him—he was tired, the breadwinner! I blamed myself, tried to be the perfect wife, spun like a hamster on a wheel just to keep him happy. But then James started griping:
“Must be nice, living the easy life! Drop the kid at nursery and lounge about all day. Can’t even get a job? Look at the state of this place!”
His words burned. I felt like a leech, like I really was weighing him down. So I bent over backwards even more—cooked, cleaned, practically carried his slippers in my teeth. But the rows about money got worse. James moaned about how hard it was supporting us, and his mum poured petrol on the fire: “Look what you’ve done to my boy—he’s worn to the bone because of you!”
Couldn’t take the pressure anymore, so I found work. Ran myself ragged: dropped Lily at nursery, raced to the office, then picked her up from my mum’s in the evening. The pay was decent—even better than James’s. But nothing changed at home. Two weeks in, he blew up again:
“The fridge is empty! No dinner ready! Why should I have to take the bins out after work?”
“Oh, so I should drag a toddler and a bin bag to nursery, should I?” I snapped.
James would fetch Lily from my mum’s and wait for me at home. I’d stumble back by eight, knackered, with no time for gourmet meals. Made quick stuff, sometimes just bunged a ready-meal in the oven. But James wasn’t having it:
“Other women manage—what’s your excuse?”
“Other blokes earn and don’t whinge!” I shot back. “If we’re both working, we split the chores!”
I made more, but the housework was still all on me. James reckoned cooking and cleaning were “woman’s work,” and he wasn’t lowering himself. Kept holding up his dad like some saint: “Now there’s a proper man!” I’d had enough:
“Your dad bought his own house—didn’t sponge off his wife! If it’s so bad here, bugger off back to your mum’s!”
James packed his stuff and left. His mum started ringing straight away, begging me to take him back: “What will people say? Think of Lily!” But I don’t give a toss about gossip. I’m done being a glorified servant for a man who doesn’t value me—or any of the work I do. Lily’s with me, and I’ll manage. Still, sometimes I wonder: how did I let it get this bad? Why did I put up with it? Love blinded me, but now I see clear as day—I deserve better.
