We divorced because my wife refused to cook.
A few days ago, my husband and I had such a fierce row that I threw him out of the house. Now he’s living with his mother in Nottingham, while I’m trying to piece myself back together after ten years of marriage that turned into a nightmare. His mother is horrified, ringing me up and begging me to take her “poor darling” back, but I couldn’t care less what she thinks. I’m tired of being a servant in my own home.
Even my own mother didn’t side with me:
“Emily, have you lost your mind? You’ll be left alone with a child! Why are you making Oliver out to be some sort of villain? He’s a decent man—doesn’t drink, doesn’t raise a hand to you, brings home his wages!”
I married Oliver when I was barely more than a girl, just twenty years old. Back then, I was naive, still believing in everlasting love. Thanks to my grandmother, I had a flat of my own, so I wasn’t left with nothing. My parents had divorced, but my father and his family never abandoned me. It was his mother who helped me with the flat. That’s where Oliver and I moved in after the wedding. He had nothing to his name—just a share in his mother’s three-bedroom house—but I didn’t care. I thought love mattered more.
Six months later, I was pregnant. Our daughter, Charlotte, was born just after I turned twenty-one. After maternity leave, I lost my job. Finding another proved nearly impossible—with a small child who was always falling ill, employers weren’t keen. “You’ve got a daughter? Sorry, it won’t suit,” they’d say, time and again. There was no help: neither his mother nor mine could look after Charlotte. I was stuck at home, drowning in nappies, pots, and endless chores.
Oliver worked in a nearby town, came home late, and we hardly saw each other. Every household duty fell to me. He wouldn’t so much as take the bins out—he wouldn’t even wash a plate after himself. I didn’t dare trouble him—after all, he was tired, he was the breadwinner! I blamed myself, tried to be the perfect wife, ran myself ragged trying to please him. But Oliver began grumbling:
“You’ve got it easy! Just drop the kid off at nursery and lounge about. Can’t even find work? Look at the state we’re living in—it’s a disgrace!”
His words stung. I felt guilty, as though I truly were a burden. I tried harder—cooked, cleaned, all but laid his slippers at his feet. But the rows over money grew more frequent. Oliver insisted it was a struggle to support us, and his mother only made it worse: “My boy’s worn to the bone, not himself anymore because of you!”
I couldn’t take the pressure and found work again. I rushed about like mad—dropping Charlotte at nursery, dashing to the office, then picking her up from my mother’s in the evenings. The pay was good, better than Oliver’s. But nothing changed at home. Two weeks later, he exploded again:
“The fridge is empty! No dinner ready! Why should I have to take the bins out after work?”
“Do you expect me to drag our child to nursery with a bin bag in hand?” I snapped.
Oliver would fetch Charlotte from my mother’s and wait for me at home. I’d return by eight, exhausted—there was no time for fancy meals. I’d throw something quick together, sometimes just heating ready-made food. But Oliver wasn’t happy.
“Other women manage—what’s your excuse?”
“Other men earn enough and don’t whinge!” I shot back. “If we both work, we split the chores!”
Though I earned more, the weight of the house still fell on me. Oliver insisted cooking and cleaning were “women’s work,” and he wouldn’t lower himself. He’d hold up his father as an example: “Now there’s a real man!” I’d had enough.
“Your father bought his own house—didn’t live off his wife! If you’re so unhappy, clear off back to your mother!”
Oliver packed his things and left. His mother started ringing the very next day, begging me to take him back: “Think of the gossip! Think of Charlotte!” But I couldn’t care less about wagging tongues. I’m tired of being a servant to a man who doesn’t value me or what I do. Charlotte’s with me, and I’ll manage. But sometimes I wonder—how did I let it come to this? Why did I put up with being treated like that? Love blinded me, but now I see clearly—I deserve better.
