Freedom’s Worth More Than Money
Last June, I got divorced. My husband walked out, slamming the door behind him, off to someone “younger and more glamorous.” The details don’t matter now. Back when we first met, Vincent—my ex—was all charm: flowers, sweet nothings, grand romantic gestures. But after we tied the knot, the “perfect husband trial version” expired, and the full one came with way too many restrictions. Nothing outright awful, just this one nagging thing that slowly poisoned everything. He started obsessing over money, and not in a healthy way—more like he got a twisted pleasure from it.
His salary was slightly higher than mine—about £150 more a month. Somehow, that made him the “breadwinner” and me the live-in maid. But his logic when it came to spending was… creative. Anything “for the house” was framed as his generosity toward me. “For the house” meant the car on finance—£200 a month—which he used to drive me to the supermarket once a week. “For the house” included curtains, pans, and the kitchen renovation. “For me” was our son’s clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor visits. Even the utility bills, because I paid them, counted as *my* expenses. In his mind, literally everything was “the wife’s spending.” Meanwhile, he acted like he barely spent a penny on himself. To him—and his family—I was a “black hole” sucking up all his hard-earned cash. I earned less, yet somehow *I* was the one bleeding him dry. Every month, the same snide question: “How much have you got left?” Nothing. Always nothing.
The last year of our marriage, his favourite line was, “You need reining in—you want too much.” And so he reined. First, we agreed to keep £100 each for ourselves, the rest going into the joint account. Then he decided to pocket the difference in our salaries, giving himself £250 while I still got my measly £100. Later, he slashed his contribution again, claiming, “Your £5 face cream is a luxury—I just use soap.” In the end, I was covering £550 for rent, groceries, the car, and our son—£200 from him, £350 from me. It was never enough. I stopped setting aside my £100, pouring my entire £450 paycheck into the household, scraping by on bonuses and tiny pay bumps while he bragged about how he “supported” me and threatened to cut my “spending habits” even more. Mercenary, apparently.
Why didn’t I leave sooner? Because I was an idiot. I believed him, his mum, *my* mum. I thought he was right—that I was bad with money, that he *was* supporting me. I wore clothes with holes, skipped dentist appointments (the NHS waiting list was miles long, and private was out of the question), swallowed painkillers like sweets. Meanwhile, Vincent blew £350 a month on *his* whims—new phones, designer trainers, fancy car speakers—all while boasting about his “financial discipline.”
Then—divorce. My “provider” fluttered off to someone who didn’t darn old jumpers, who wore lipstick, who went to the gym instead of scheming how to feed a family on pennies. I sobbed at night. How would I manage alone? I tightened the belt even more, terrified of the future.
But then my paycheck came. And—miracle of miracles—there was money left. *Actual money.* Before, I’d have been dipping into the overdraft by now. Then the next payday hit, and suddenly, there was even *more.* I sat down, wiped my tears, grabbed a notepad, and did the maths. Yes, his salary—well, the pathetic £200 he bothered contributing—was gone. But so was the £200 car payment. Grocery bills halved. No one whined that chicken “wasn’t proper meat,” no demands for steaks, greasy stews, or posh sausages. No sneers at £2 cheddar when he wanted £6 artisan stuff. No beer to buy, no sweets vanishing by the kilo. No one snarling, “These meatballs are rubbish—just order pizza.”
I WENT TO THE DENTIST. God, it felt good. I binned the rags I’d been ashamed to pick my son up from nursery in and bought simple, *new* clothes. Got a haircut for the first time in six years. After the divorce, Vincent started paying £80 in child support—just enough for nursery and swimming lessons. At Christmas, he “generously” chucked in an extra £50 with a note: “Get the kid some fruit and a proper present—don’t you dare spend it on yourself, I know what you’re like.” “On myself”—hilarious. Drunk on freedom and having cash to spare, I bought my son everything he’d wanted: a cheap microscope, a Lego set, smartwatch. With a bonus, I redid his bedroom. For Christmas, I got him a huge hamster cage with all the trimmings.
In November, I took a promotion I’d been too scared to consider before. More work? What about the house? Turns out—I manage. No more slaving over homemade dumplings (“I’m not funding you to eat shop-bought crap!”). No one calls me a gold-digger or picks fights. The only nuisance is my ex-mother-in-law, who “drops by to see her grandson” while discreetly snapping pics of the fridge and the flat—probably reporting back to her precious boy.
Right now, I’m curled on the sofa, eating mango, watching my son fuss over his hamsters—”Did I put enough food? Is the water full? Should I cut the carrot like this?”—and I feel… calm. Without Vincent. Without his money. Yeah, I had to sell my gran’s cottage to buy out his share of the flat. But freedom? Peace? Worth every penny.
