**Diary Entry – 15th May**
Divorced my husband in May. He walked out, slamming the door, off to someone “younger and prettier.” But that’s neither here nor there.
He was an ordinary sort of bloke before marriage—attentive, gentle, with all the romantic gestures you’d expect. Then the free trial ended, and the full version came with limited features.
Nothing outright criminal, mind you. Just one thorn in my side—he started counting pennies, always with a skewed logic. His salary was a tenner higher than mine on average (it fluctuated, but never by much). To him, that made him the “breadwinner,” while I handled the household. But when it came to spending, his maths had its own rules.
If it was “for the house,” it counted as money spent on *me*.
“The house” included the car with monthly loan payments of £350—the same car that took me to Tesco *once* a week for groceries.
“The house,” meaning *me*, covered blankets, towels, pots, and the bathroom renovation.
*My* expenses included kids’ clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor’s bills.
*My* expenses paid the utility bills since I was the one handling them. But if *I* paid, they were *my* costs.
All of this was “for the wife.” Meanwhile, “for the husband,” barely a penny left the family budget. In his eyes—and his family’s—I was a “money pit.” Earned less, spent more, nearly everything he brought in.
He loved needling me at the end of the month—*How much is left?* Of course, nothing ever was.
The last year, his favourite line was, *”Need to cut you off. You want too much.”* And he did.
Early on, we agreed to keep £200 each for personal spending, the rest went into the pot. Then he decided he’d pocket the difference in our salaries. So £400 for him, £200 for me. Later, he trimmed his contribution by another £200—*”Your shampoo costs a fiver, mine’s just soap!”*
By the end, I had £1,000 a month to cover food, the car loan, and the kid. He chipped in £400—I paid £600. Never enough. I stopped saving for myself, poured my whole £800 wage into the family, scraping by on bonuses and odd bits of overtime. All while listening to how *he* supported *me*, how *he’d* tighten the purse strings further—*”No room for greed.”*
Why didn’t I leave sooner? Stupidity, pure and simple. I believed him. His mum. My mum. That *he* was the provider and *I* couldn’t manage money. Wore frayed jumpers. Saved every quid. Swallowed paracetamol and put off the dentist because the NHS list was endless, and I couldn’t justify private fees.
Meanwhile, he blew £600 a month on himself—bragging about his “budgeting skills.” New phone. Designer trainers. A £500 subwoofer for the car.
Then, divorce. Off he fluttered, the mighty “provider,” leaving his shabby wife for a woman who didn’t shop at charity shops, who powdered her nose and worked out instead of stitching socks from old jumpers.
I wept, of course. How would I manage alone with a kid? Saved even harder, dreading tomorrow.
Then payday came. And for once, money was *left over*. A proper chunk, too. Before, I’d be dipping into the overdraft by then.
I sat down. Wiped my nose. Did the sums.
His contribution? A pitiful £400. Gone. The car loan? £350—gone. Groceries? Half what they used to be. No complaints that chicken “wasn’t proper meat,” no demands for steak, richer stews, posher sausages. No sneers at budget cheese—*”A working man deserves better on his sandwich!”* (I bought the expensive stuff for him, the cheap for us.) No beer vanishing. No chocolates by the bucket.
And no one whinging, *”Your pies? Nah. I want takeaway.”*
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED. Bloody hell. *I got my teeth fixed.*
Tossed the rags I’d been ashamed to collect my son in. Bought new clothes—nothing fancy, but *new*. Went to a hairdresser for the first time in five years.
After the divorce, he finally coughed up child support—£150 a month, barely covering nursery and football club. Before Christmas, he threw in an extra £50—*”Buy the lad oranges and a decent present. Don’t you dare spend it on yourself.”*
*”On myself.”* Hilarious. Drunk on financial freedom, I’d already bought my boy everything he’d ever asked for. A cheap telescope. Lego. Smartwatch for kids. Used my bonus to finally fix up his room. For Christmas? A giant cage with two guinea pigs and all the trimmings.
In December, I took a promotion—something I’d never dared before. *When would I manage the housework?* Turns out, just fine. No need to batch-cook vats of stew, roll endless dumplings—*”I’m not paying for ready meals!”*
Best of all? No snide remarks. No “gold-digger” jibes. No frayed nerves—well, except when his mum drops by to “see her grandson” and snaps pictures of *everything*—the fridge, the clothes, the flat.
Right now, I’m sprawled on the sofa, eating pineapple, watching my boy fuss over his guinea pigs—*”Mum, is this enough? Did I pour it right? How much cabbage?”*—and it’s *good*. Better without him. Better without his money.
So what if I had to sell Gran’s cottage to buy him out of the flat? Freedom’s worth every brick.
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes losing half feels like gaining everything.
