For eight years, I was married to my husband, absolutely convinced he was a perfectly ordinary fellow, but during the divorce, every last skeleton tumbled out of his closet. Now I can’t help but shudder at the thought that I stayed with him so long, though, really, I’m just relieved to be free at last.
We dated for a year before getting hitched, so all together, we were a thing for nine years. As youd expect, life in our household was rather like EastEndersups and downs, bust-ups and make-ups, cups of tea, and the occasional dramatic silence. But I took it all as normal family life; my parents have had their own fair share of kerfuffles and are still married after fifty years, so who was I to complain?
Weve got a sona lovely lad, six now, though he was just five when the marital ship went down. My ex never bothered spending much time with him, waving it off with, Hes a bit young still, isnt he? Ill tackle parenting when hes older. The DIY approach to fatherhood, apparently: leave it in the shed until it needs attention.
As for helping around the house, it was the bare minimum. If the dishwasher exploded or the bins started walking themselves to the curb, then, and only then, would he lift a finger. His mothermy mother-in-lawseemed to have programmed him since birth to believe chores are strictly womens work. Men apparently should only lift a cup of tea to their lips.
The mother-in-law, bless her, was a story all on her own. Thank the Queen she lived in Leeds and only descended on us, broomstick and all, thrice a year. That was more than enough. Any harmony achieved in her absence was quickly smashed to pieces whenever she arrived, puffed up with her vintage my son can do no wrong settings and a suitcase full of unsolicited advice. Cue family drama on repeat.
What I couldnt stomach were her sermons about providers and homemakers. In fact, I was the designated breadwinner; Im a solicitor and my salary put his to shame. No idea who was supposed to bring home the bacon and who was supposed to fry the eggs, as she put it, but I seemed to be doing both.
Last year, my husband basically retired from employment altogether. His company limped through the pandemic, only to sink like the Titanic as soon as things looked up. They politely told everyone to pack up and leave. He launched a heroic job hunt: too far, too little pay, too much experience required, not enough parking you know the drill. Hed scroll through job ads or trundle off to interviews while I, twice daily, lugged our son from after-school club, clocked an extra shift myself, and juggled a kitchen timer with my teeth.
He was too busy with CVs to help at home, which I found, frankly, a bit much. In the end, I lost patience, arguments became our evening routine, and door-slamming evolved into a new Olympic sport. I started kipping at my mates house just for a decent nights sleep. He got the classic last warning, but somehow, shockingly, managed to waste it too.
Finally, after one too many This is just who I am conversations, I packed his bags for him, showed him the door of my flatwhich my folks gave me years beforeand filed for divorce. He tried a bit of grovelling, but honestly, I was too knackered to care about his promises or crocodile tears.
Now divorced, and still, my ex and his mum havent quietened down. They seem to have nothing better to do than slag me off over tea and digestive biscuits, ringing up the family tree to spread their tales. Im not fussed about their side-eye, but calling my own parents to tell them porkiesthats a bit much. My parents are pensioners; they dont need his melodrama interrupting Pointless.
To top it off, while I was at work, he turned up with his old key and helped himself to my laptop, winter coat, the microwave, and my gold bracelet. Of course, no receipts, nothing traceable, so the police would just laugh their constable socks off if I complained. Shouldve changed the locks, but hindsight, as they say, is always 20/20.
The grand finale? He stood up in court for the child maintenance hearing and announced he wanted a DNA testwasnt sure my son was his. I just shrugged and said, Fine, hes not yours then, which left both him and his mother gaping like extras on a daytime quiz show. Perhaps not strictly true, but their faces were worth it.
The end result: my exs name struck off the birth certificate, full freedom at last. Ive read horror stories where the dad turns into a stalker, denying holidays, lobbing threats, surveilling your life. Instead, my ex accidentally delivered a get-out-of-jail-free card.
Between you, me, and the lamppost, anyone with eyes could tell my son is his fathers doppelganger. But thanks to the paperwork, the ex and dear mother-in-law are legally nobodies, and I plan to keep it that way. I need neither their help nor their maintenance money. Honestly, after all this, I think Ive earned a cuppaand maybe a hobnob or two.
