**Freedom Over Money**
June marked the end of my marriage. My husband stormed out, slamming the door behind him, off to someone “younger and more glamorous.” The details hardly matter now. Oliver, my ex, was the picture of charm before the wedding—flowers, sweet words, romance. But after the registry office, the trial version of the “perfect husband” expired, and the full version came with limitations. Nothing outrageous, just one persistent thorn poisoning my days. He started counting money. And he did it with a kind of sadistic obsession.
His salary topped mine by about £200 a month. That made him the “breadwinner,” and me—the unpaid housekeeper. But he accounted for expenses with his own twisted logic. Anything “for the home” was framed as his generosity. “For the home” meant the car on finance, costing £400 a month, which he used once a week to drive me to Tesco. “For the home” included curtains, pans, and the kitchen refurbishment. “For me”? That covered our son’s clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor visits. “For me” also meant the utility bills—after all, I paid them. And if I paid, then in his mind, they were my expenses. All of it, he insisted, was “for the wife.” Meanwhile, he spent almost nothing on himself—or so he believed. To him and his family, I was a money pit, burning through his hard-earned cash. I earned less, yet somehow drained everything he brought home. Every month, the same snide question: “How much is left?” Nothing, of course.
The last year, his favourite line was: “I need to rein you in—you want too much.” So he did. First, we agreed to keep £200 each for ourselves, the rest pooled. Then he claimed the difference in our salaries, taking £500 for himself while I stuck to £200. Later, he cut his contribution by another £200, declaring, “Your £10 moisturiser is a luxury—I make do with soap.” In the end, I was allocated £1,100 for the house, groceries, and our son: £400 from him, £700 from me. It wasn’t enough. I stopped saving my £200, pouring my entire £900 salary into the household. I scraped by on the odd bonus or tiny pay raise, listening to him boast about how he “provided” for me while threatening to tighten the purse strings further. Too materialistic, apparently.
Why didn’t I leave sooner? Because I was a fool. I believed him, his mother, my mother. Thought he was right—that I couldn’t budget, that he was keeping me afloat. I wore threadbare clothes, pinched every penny, swallowed painkillers instead of booking a dentist—NHS waiting lists were endless, and private care was out of reach. Meanwhile, Oliver splurged £700 a month on himself: the latest iPhone, designer trainers, a premium sound system for the car. And he’d gloat about his “brilliant financial planning.”
Then—the divorce. My “provider” fluttered off to someone who didn’t darn old jumpers, who wore lipstick and gym gear instead of fretting over how to stretch £20 for a family meal or knit mittens from an unravelled sweater. I sobbed at night. How would I manage alone with our son? I scrimped harder, terrified of the future.
But then payday came. And—miraculously—there was money left. A lot of it. Before, I’d have maxed out my credit card by now. Then the next paycheme arrived, and there was even more. I sat down, wiped my tears, grabbed a notepad, and crunched the numbers. Income, outgoings—all laid bare. Yes, his salary—or rather, the paltry £400 he contributed—was gone. But so was the car payment (£400). Grocery bills halved. No one complained that chicken wasn’t “proper meat,” no demands for steak, richer stews, or fancy sausages. No sneers at £2 cheese, insisting on the £6 kind. No need for beer, no sweets vanishing by the packet. And no snide remarks like, “Your cooking’s rubbish—just order pizza.”
I FIXED MY TEETH! God, I did it! I tossed the rags I’d been ashamed to wear when collecting our son from nursery, bought simple new clothes, and even visited a hairdresser for the first time in six years. After the divorce, Oliver started paying £160 in child support—enough for nursery and swimming lessons. Before Christmas, he “generously” tossed in an extra £100 with a note: “Buy the lad fruit and a decent present—don’t you dare spend it on yourself, I know how you are.” The “on yourself” bit made me laugh. Drunk on freedom and having cash in my purse, I bought our son everything he’d wanted: an affordable microscope, a Lego set, smartwatch. With my bonus, I redecorated his room. For Christmas, I got him a huge hamster cage with all the trimmings.
By November, I accepted a promotion I’d once been too afraid to consider. More work? But what about the house? Turns out, I manage just fine. No more hours slaving over homemade dumplings (“I provide for you, and you feed me shop-bought?”). No one calls me a gold-digger or grinds my nerves to dust. Only my ex-mother-in-law drops by “to see her grandson,” snapping photos of the fridge and renovations—probably as evidence for her son.
Now, I’m sprawled on the sofa, eating mango, watching our boy carefully feed his hamsters. “Is this enough food? Enough water? Should I cut the carrot like this?” And I feel… peaceful. Without Oliver and his money. Sure, I had to sell Grandma’s cottage in the countryside to buy him out of the flat. But freedom and calm? Priceless.
