My name is Andrew, and I’m 47 years old. After nearly two decades of marriage, I can no longer pretend we’re happily married. I can’t keep enduring the strain—my chest aches, my nights are restless, and my throat tightens every time I come home.
We met when we were young. I was 27 when we got married, she was 24. Our life unfolded like many others: a mortgage, initial squabbles, plans for the future, and the routine of everyday life. Our son was born three years later, which is likely the only reason we stayed together. Now, at 19, he’s in university, completely unaware of the price we’ve paid to maintain this facade of a happy marriage.
Things seemed fine at first. She often said she didn’t want children because my earnings were too modest. Back then, I worked in a workshop, assembling furniture, and we got by, though just barely. It wasn’t until later that I realized my wife was embarrassed of me. Watching TV, she absorbed shows that encouraged women to be strong, independent, and demanding, and this led her to take on the role of a judge in our household.
She criticized everything about me—how I spoke, how I stood, even how I rode my bike. Especially in front of others. We didn’t socialize much with neighbors, and we had few relatives, so I didn’t notice how toxic her words could be. But when new families moved into our street, everything changed. We started visiting one another, and it was there, among strangers, that I saw how other couples interacted—with respect, warmth, and no shouting.
Meanwhile, my wife had no qualms about raising her voice at me in public, accusing and belittling. She’d complain about how she’s “carrying the whole burden,” that I’m a “good-for-nothing husband,” and claim the child’s education was solely her doing. Yet without my mortgage payments, without me purchasing our house, we’d have had nothing. In five years, I cleared all the debt. I earned £5,000 a month, bringing everything home. She earned £800, and where it went, I never asked—I trusted her.
Trust is not destroyed by betrayal but through continuous disappointment. I no longer feel any connection or warmth with her. Though we sleep in the same bed, there’s a vast silence between us. I don’t want to touch her, talk to her, or even return home after work. Her voice, her tone, her very look irritates me, scraping my nerves like sandpaper.
Every argument is a battlefield where I’m always in the wrong, and she’s always right. Her phrase, “You’ve ruined my life,” repeats like a mantra. If I truly ruined her life, why is she still here? Why do we continue this charade?
I often observe other women—colleagues and neighbors. They smile easily, speak softly, and laugh kindly, never raising their voices at men in public. I’m not searching for another woman; I’m just comparing, wondering why my wife became like this. Or was she always this way, and I simply didn’t notice?
Sometimes I think I no longer love her. Yet other times, perhaps I still do, beneath it all. Because of who she used to be, for our shared history, for our son. But living on edge, like a powder keg, is unbearable. I’m not made of iron. Her constant dissatisfaction drains the life out of me.
I dream of divorce—it’s a daily thought. But I’m afraid—afraid of my son’s reaction, of judgment, of being alone. Though truthfully, I am alone already, standing beside someone who has become a stranger. And there’s no greater loneliness than being lonely together.
