*Diary Entry*
It all started when Lily got that promotion at the bank. Overnight, she became sharp-tongued and impatient, nothing like the quiet, easy-going woman I’d married. I couldn’t make sense of it—why the sudden nagging? She’d snap at me for sitting around while she juggled everything: meals, our son, the cleaning. As if it was my fault! Our little terraced house in Bristol hardly needed a man’s touch. The shelves were up, the taps didn’t drip. And cooking? That wasn’t a man’s job. Once, I asked for a proper stew, just a hint, really. Her reply? “Peel the veg, then I’ll make it.” I snapped, “Do it yourself—you’re the woman!”
She buried herself in work, leaving our boy waiting at nursery till the last pickup. Poor lad. But going myself? No. What if they expected me to shift furniture or fix a leak?
I told myself she didn’t appreciate me anymore. “Was this promotion worth it?” I’d grumble. “Life was fine before.” She’d just shrug. “Go get your own raise, then. Earn enough, and I’ll stay home, cook, mind our son. But we can’t live on your wages alone. My mum used to help—now she’s got her own bills.” All I heard was excuses. “Now she fancies a kitchen reno,” I’d mutter.
Truth was, climbing the ladder didn’t appeal. I saw my manager slogging weekends—no thanks. “I put in my hours and go home,” I’d say. But Lily’s jabs festered. Fine. If she wanted to play boss, she could learn what loneliness felt like. I started staying late, then—well—Vera happened.
Plain but sweet, from accounts. Warm voice, always baking. She had a little boy, but that didn’t bother me. With her, I mattered: cosy blankets, hot dinners, admiring looks. We met more often. Meanwhile, Lily’s mum fetched our son—Lily was knee-deep in some big project. “Good,” I thought. “She won’t cook? Vera feeds me. Fair’s fair.”
But Vera had rules. No chocolates, perfume, or “a little something” for her? Dinner turned sparse, her hugs colder. It nagged at me, but I brushed it off. “She’s not asking for love, just attention and a few quid. Wait till Lily hears I’m leaving—then she’ll beg.”
Then Vera dead-eyed asked for a fur coat.
Game over.
I stormed home, waited for Lily, and laid it out. “Enough. I’m a man. I want meals, a tidy house, clean socks. You’re home first—why’s supper not on?”
She kicked off her heels, dropped her bag. “That it?”
“No,” I boomed. “I’m leaving. For a woman who values me! My bags are packed—done!”
“Good,” she said. “Off you go. Tired of a lazy whinger. And leave the house. I paid the mortgage alone. Solicitor’ll back that.”
Boiling water couldn’t have shocked me more. No tears? No begging? Just icy facts.
Fuming, I lugged my bag to Vera’s and rapped the door. “Love, I’m yours now—for good!”
She looked me up and down, arms crossed. “Who said you could move in? I’ve a kid, a rented flat, a pittance wage. You’re not a solution—you’re a drain. Won’t pay? Piss off.”
The door slammed.
There I stood on the landing—suitcase, shattered pride, empty hands. Unwanted. By wife or mistress.
Alone. Properly alone. First time in years.
