My name is Andrew. I’m 47 years old. My wife and I have been together for nearly 20 years, supposedly long enough to become close, learn to listen, understand, and support each other. But clearly, that was an illusion. I don’t want to pretend everything is fine anymore. I can’t take it any longer. I’m exhausted. Exhausted to the point of chest pain, anxious dreams, and a lump in my throat when I walk through the front door.
We met when we were young and married when I was twenty-seven, and she was twenty-four. Life went on as usual: a mortgage, our first arguments, shared plans, and day-to-day life together. Three years later, our son was born. We stayed together for him. He’s nineteen now, in college, and unaware of the cost of maintaining this “happy” marriage.
Initially, everything seemed fine. She would say she didn’t want children because I earned too little. At the time, I worked in a workshop assembling furniture. Money was tight, but I didn’t see it as a disaster. That was until I realized my wife was ashamed of me. She watched TV shows that portrayed women as strong, independent, demanding. It was enough for her to become a judge within our own home.
She criticized everything about me—how I spoke, how I stood, how I rode my bike—especially in front of others. We didn’t interact much with neighbors, and we had few relatives, so I hadn’t noticed how toxic her words could be. But when new families moved onto our street, everything changed. We began socializing, visiting each other’s homes. Among strangers, I heard the way other couples spoke to one another—with respect, with warmth, without yelling.
But my wife… She publicly raises her voice at me, accuses and belittles me. She tells people I’m a “worthless husband,” that she has to “carry everything on her own,” even claiming that she’s solely responsible for our son’s education. Yet, without my payments on the mortgage and if I hadn’t bought this house, we would’ve had nothing. It took five years to clear that debt. My salary is £5,000 a month. I always brought home everything I earned. Whereas she makes £800. And where it all goes, I don’t know. I never asked because I trusted her.
But trust doesn’t die from betrayal; it dies from constant disappointment. I no longer feel any closeness or warmth with her. We sleep in the same bed, but it’s like miles of silence between us. I don’t want to touch her, talk to her, or even come home after work. She irritates me to the point of shaking. Her voice, her tone, even her gaze—it’s like sandpaper on my nerves.
Every argument turns into a battlefield. I’m always in the wrong, and she’s always right. Her line, “You’ve ruined my life,” has become a mantra, repeated over and over, as if I truly wrecked her destiny. But why then is she still with me? Why do we continue this charade?
Sometimes I look at women around me—colleagues, neighbors. They know how to smile, speak softly, laugh kindly. They don’t shout at their partners in front of others. I’m not seeking another woman; I’m merely comparing. Comparing and wondering: why has my wife become like this? Or was she always like this, and I just didn’t notice?
Sometimes I feel like I don’t love her anymore. Other times, I think I still do, deep down inside. For the person she used to be. For our youth. For our son. But I can’t live under constant tension, like a powder keg, any longer. I’m not made of steel. I don’t have the strength to endure her perpetual dissatisfaction anymore.
I dream of getting a divorce. I think about it every day. But I’m scared. Scared of how my son will react, scared of judgment, scared of being alone. Although, to be honest, I’m alone even now. There’s just someone next to me who has become a stranger. And there’s nothing more terrifying than being lonely together.
