Our journey began more than fifteen years ago, when I married my husband, Andrew. In those early days, we lived with my mother-in-lawan experience not unlike surviving on British Rail sandwiches: character-building, bland, and slightly bewildering. We both slogged away in the local factory, dreaming of bigger things and slightly less tea.
After a couple of years, we upgraded to a flat in Manchester through sheer force of will and an unhealthy relationship with instant coffee. Things seemed to be ticking along nicely. Spotting some potential in Andrewwell, he was the only one who could assemble an IKEA bookcase without swearingI egged him on to pursue a university degree. While he studied, I dutifully took charge of his coursework, typed up essays, made endless cups of Earl Grey, and did everything short of going to lectures in a wig. He breezed through, got promoted at work, and I found comfort in our little family, even if my own careerwith all my fancy educationnever quite soared beyond the local post office.
When our son, Thomas, was nearing six and I was busy corralling him, along came our daughter, Beatrice. After a spell at home, I returned to work, but both kids had immune systems seemingly modelled after Victorian chimney sweeps. The GP receptionists knew us on a first-name basis, and I spent more time administering Calpol than in actual meetings. Still, I counted my blessingsat least they hadnt taken after Andrews taste in wallpaperand family happiness kept me going.
Andrews devotion to his job hit new heights, and thanks to endless overtime and learning to smile through PowerPoint presentations, we managed to buy a spacious flat so the kids finally didnt have to share a rooma cause for wild celebration (and a hopeful reduction in bedtime wars). But Andrews absences became more frequent. He was either working late, getting stuck in traffic on the M6, or possibly trying to outrun his responsibilities with Sainsburys own brand biscuits.
Then, one day, the bomb dropped. Over coffee and digestive biscuits, an old colleague confided in me about her husbands affair, which put me on high alert. After some snooping worthy of Agatha Christieminus the moustacheI discovered Andrew was cheating with a co-worker. I marched to his office, cornered her, and asked her kindly to back away from my family. She, however, responded by making me look ridiculous in front of everyone and didnt seem slightly remorseful.
Andrew soon followed, confessed his affair, and announced he wanted a divorce, claiming he was exhausted from maintaining a double life (odd, since he couldnt balance the household budget). He hired the poshest solicitors money could buy and left me and the kids with absolutely nothingno concern for our wellbeing, not a penny in the bank, and not even a half-hearted apology. Andrew pranced off into his new romance, leaving me to pick up the pieces.
Thank heavens for my parents, who stepped in with emotional support and their life savings, helping me buy a snug flat in Liverpool and find a job to keep our new ship afloat. Life became bearable again; the kids adapted, and I found my sense of humour lurking under a pile of laundry.
A year later, Andrew came crawling backout of work, dumped by his new wife after a spectacularly daft car accident, and as arrogant as ever. Not a whiff of apology, just a plea for help as if Id been waiting by the phone for his inevitable downfall. I politely but firmly told him where to stick his empty promises. After all, he had left us with nothingnot even the good towels.
Now, the suns finally shining again, and for once, Im putting Beatrice, Thomas, and myself first. If Andrew wanted people to bend over backwards for him, he should have taken up yoga.
