Ive been married for what feels like a century I first met my husband, Richard, back at university in Sheffield. Honestly, I never got to know anyone else. I picked him, stuck with him, and became one of those rare fossils who swore allegiance to one person, never batting my lashes at another soul.
We got married in our third year, both of us young and blissfully clueless. Was it true love? Hard to say, but it must have been something, seeing as we managed to live under one roof for so many years without driving each other completely round the bend. Our classmates practically put us on a pedestal, set us up as the model couple, although, truth be told, we werent the only lovebirds on the course. Why us? Likely because we stuck togethereven when things looked proper grim.
By the fourth year, wed become parents. Dropping out wasnt an option; many tutors sympathised, and we werent cocky about our special circumstances. Through sheer grit (and quite a bit of caffeine), we managed to finish our degrees, donned our funny square hats, and had a celebratory pint or two. Richard was always there, chopping onions, folding baby-grows, and wielding the hoover with impressive enthusiasm.
Id never pictured myself with anyone else. Richard was my soulmate, my gold standard. We finished each others sentences and almost never had a cross word. Surely thats the fairy tale, so after a couple of years, we decided, Why not try for a girl? Complete the set, as it were.
Why not, indeed? Caring husband, healthy, independent little boy a daughter would just top it off. Surely, I had it madehusband adored me and pulled his weight at home. Even after his late shifts, hed come home to tumble around with the kids, giving me precious moments of peace.
Nothing could have prepared me for the plot twist. Out of nowhere, Richard went as cold as a British winter. He stopped bothering to come home on time, and when he did, hed nitpick suddenly, everything I did irritated him. One day, in response to my innocent How was your day? he snapped, saying my job was just to whip up his dinner, wipe the little ones noses, and keep him happy at night.
Well, after that, my enthusiasm for both the kitchen and the bedroom evaporated. I figured Richard might reflect on things and sort himself out, but instead things went properly pear-shaped. He took to downing pints at the pub and vanishing overnight, coming home not as the doting father, but rather as an irritable ogre.
Then came the night he burst through the door, bellowing: Ive had enough of screaming kids and your dreadful tracksuit bottoms! Ive never been proud of youno make-up, never dressing up for me. Id rather not take you anywhere, youre a mess. All you want is my money! Did anyone ever think about what I want?
Exasperated, I rang my mother-in-law, but she leapt to Richards defence, begging me not to go through with a divorce. That was thatI bundled the kids, a duffle bag, and a sense of relief, and moved into a rented flat in Manchester. My mate helped me get my daughter a spot at nursery, and I picked up an extra job. Life isnt exactly a walk in Hyde Park, but at least theres no one throwing punches at us.
At the divorce hearing, everything came tumbling outRichard was actually severely unwell, a fact his parents had swept under the rug. Apparently, they encouraged our marriage because I was such a docile match for him. His mother even whisked him off to Harley Street for treatmentno luck. Hed been taking pills to seem normal. Do I feel pity? Of course. But Im not about to share a flat with someone unpredictable. The main thing islets hope the kids inherit my sanity, not their fathers troubles.
