**Diary Entry – 12th March**
Divorced my husband in May. He slammed the door on his way out, running off to someone “younger and prettier.” But that’s just details now.
My ex was… typical. Before marriage—attentive, tender, all the romantic gestures you’d expect. Then the trial period ended, and the full version came with limited functionality.
Nothing criminal, mind you. Just that one splinter—money. He started counting every penny, always with a slant.
Yes, his salary was about £300 more than mine (went up a bit here and there, nothing major). To him, that made him the “breadwinner,” while I handled everything at home. But expenses? Oh, he had his own formula.
If it was “for the house” – that counted as money spent *on me*.
“For the house” was the car with monthly finance payments of £500. The one he’d drive me to Tesco in once a week.
“For the house” (meaning *for me*) were quilts, towels, pots, fixing the bathroom.
“For me” was buying the kids’ clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor’s bills.
“For me” was paying the bills—since I handled them. If *I* spent the money, they were *my* expenses.
All this was “for the wife.” So apparently, barely anything from the family budget went “for the husband.” To him and his family, I was a “financial black hole.” Earned less, spent everything he brought in.
He’d wait till payday, then slyly ask, “How much is left?” Knowing full well nothing was.
In our last year, his favourite line was: “We need to cut your spending. You want too much.” And he did.
Early on, we agreed to keep £200 each for personal spending, pooling the rest. Then he decided he’d also keep the difference in our wages. So he took £400. I still got my £200.
Later, he did some “maths” and slashed his contribution by another £300. His logic? “Your shampoo costs £8, and I wash my hair with soap.”
By the end, I had £1,200 a month to cover groceries, the car payment, household bills, and our child. He put in £600. I put in £900. Still not enough.
I stopped setting aside anything for myself, pouring my whole £1,200 salary into the family pot. Scraped by on bonuses and odd bits of overtime. Meanwhile, he lectured me about *him* being the provider and threatened to “cut me off further” because I was “too materialistic.”
“Why didn’t you leave sooner?” you might ask.
I was daft. I believed him. And his mum. And mine. Convinced it was true—he was the provider, and I was just bad with money. Wore worn-out clothes. Counted every pence. Swallowed painkillers instead of seeing the dentist because the NHS waitlist was endless, and I couldn’t justify spending on private care.
Meanwhile, he had £900 a month for his whims. Bragged about his “financial discipline.” A new phone. Designer trainers. A £600 subwoofer for the car.
Then—divorce. Off he fluttered, the “great provider,” to someone who didn’t dress in charity-shop finds, who had time for the gym instead of stitching socks from old jumpers.
Of course, I sobbed. *How will I manage alone with a child?* Started pinching pennies harder, dreading the future.
Then payday came. And—shock—money was *left over*. A *lot*. Before, I’d be dipping into overdraft by then.
Then the mid-month payment hit. Even more.
I sat down. Wiped my nose and crunched the numbers.
Pen and paper, columns: “Income” vs. “Outgoings.” His salary—or rather, the £600 scrap he’d contributed—was gone. So was the £500 car payment.
Groceries? Less than half what I’d spent before. No one whinged that chicken “wasn’t proper meat,” demanded expensive cuts, richer stews, posher sausages. No sneers at budget cheese (“A working man deserves decent sandwiches!”). No beer. No sweets vanishing by the bucket.
No “Your pies are rubbish, I want takeaway pizza.”
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED. Bloody hell. I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!
Binned the rags I’d been ashamed to collect my son from nursery in. Bought new clothes—simple, but *mine*. Went to a hairdresser for the first time in five years.
For the first time, *he* actually paid child support. A princely £7 a month—barely covers nursery and swimming lessons. Before Christmas, he magnanimously added £50: “Get the kid some decent presents, none of your nonsense.”
“Oh, *my* nonsense.” Hilarious. Drunk on financial freedom, I’d already bought my son everything he’d asked for: telescope, building kit, smart watches for kids. Spent my bonus on finally redoing his room. For Christmas—a huge hamster cage with two, plus all the trimmings.
In December, I accepted a promotion—unthinkable before. *When would I manage the housework?* Turns out, fine. No more slaving over vats of stew or hand-rolling dumplings (“I don’t fund you to feed me frozen rubbish!”).
Best of all? No one’s griping. No “gold-digger” jibes. No stress (well, except his mum popping round to “visit her grandson,” photographing my fridge, my clothes, my flat).
Now, sprawled on the sofa, snacking on pineapple, watching my son carefully tend his hamsters (“Mum, is this enough food? Did I fill the water right?”), I’m… happy. Without him.
So what if I had to sell Gran’s cottage to buy him out of the flat? Freedom’s worth it.
**Lesson:** Sometimes what you lose isn’t a loss at all.
