It feels like a lifetime ago now, but I remember when I first met my husband back at university in Oxford. I was a loyal sort, never the type to flirt or wander. I chose him, and never looked twice at anyone else. In those days, some might have called me old-fashionedfaithful to one man, steady as a rock.
We married in our third year, barely adults and rather naïve, looking back. Im not sure if it was a roaring, passionate love, but it must have been strong enough, for we built a life together beneath the same roof for so many years. Our classmates saw us as the model couple. I suppose it was because, no matter what, we stuck together, weathering every storm, never pulling apart at the seams.
In the fourth year, we became parents. Giving up on our degrees? Not a chance. Many of our lecturers understood our situation and supported us, and we never took advantage. Through sheer grit and togetherness, we both graduated, collecting our diplomas with pride. My husband always pulled his weight at home; we shared the chores, never burdening one more than the other.
I couldnt imagine marrying anyone else. To me, he was the embodiment of what a husband should bemy ideal, my other half. We complemented one another, rarely falling out. In such a contented household, it felt only natural to have another child, so two years later, we welcomed a daughter, completing our little family.
I truly believed I was the luckiest woman in England. My husband loved me and was always eager to help, no matter how busy he was with work. Hed come home, play with the children, and Id have time to myself. Life felt perfect. But, quite suddenly, I realised things had changedmy husband grew distant.
Hed stay late at work, irritated with me, picking arguments over nothing. When I once asked, How are you? he snapped that my only concern was to mind the children, cook his tea, and satisfy him at night.
That sort of talk drained all desire from meboth for him and for the kitchen. I hoped hed reflect on his behaviour, come to his senses. But matters only worsened. He took to the drink and soon spent nights away. The caring father was replaced by a brute.
One evening, he burst through the door and began shouting:
Im tired of the childrens racket and your tatty tracksuit bottoms! Ive never been proud of youyouve never put on makeup, never shown any effort. I dont want to be seen with you, you look a fright. You only care about money, but what about what I want?
In desperation, I rang my mother-in-law, but she sided with her son and begged me not to go through with a divorce. That was the last straw. I packed up the children, found a modest flat for rent, and moved out. With a friends help, I got my daughter into nursery and took on extra work. Life was tough, but at least we were safeno more dodging fists.
It was only during the court proceedings that I discovered the truth: my husband had struggled with mental health issues all along. His parents had kept it under wraps, hoping a quiet, docile wife like me would help settle him. His mother had even taken him for treatment in Germany, but to no great effect. Hed been on medication for years, just to function.
I felt pity, of course, but I couldnt live with someone so unstable, not with the children to think of. My only hope now is that his affliction passes by our son and daughter, leaving them free to choose their own happiness.
