**Diary Entry – October 12th**
It’s been over a year, and I might as well be living alone. On paper, I’m married—I have a child, a home—but my husband… he’s just *gone*. Either he’s working late, or he’s disappeared into his mother’s flat. The worst part? He doesn’t see a problem with it. Not an ounce of sympathy, not a flicker of understanding. To him, this is normal: work, help his mum, and come home only to sleep.
People keep telling me, “Hang on, once your maternity leave ends, things will get better.” But that’s not the point. The truth is, I’ve stopped making excuses for him. Before, I defended him—”He’s tired, his job is demanding”—but now… now I see it for what it is. My family is crumbling, slowly but surely.
We live in a modest two-bedroom flat in Manchester. I’m on maternity leave with our little boy. My husband, James, works for a large logistics firm—recently got a promotion. Since then, he’s barely home. Comes back near midnight, up at dawn, and gone again. When he’s not working? His mum’s place.
Margaret, his mother, has made a habit of pulling him away ever since the baby was born. Always something: a leaky tap, a loose shelf, a door that won’t close. Fine, if it were occasional. But it’s relentless. A few months ago, she suddenly decided her flat needed renovating—*now*, of all times, when James is swamped with work. And who’s paying? My husband. Meanwhile, we’re scraping by on what’s left of his salary. Child benefits? A joke. Not even enough for half the nappies.
When James had time off, he offered to do the work then. “Oh, no need,” she said. “It’s fine as it is.” But now? *Emergency*. The paint’s peeling, the tiles are cracked… So weekends? He’s there. Every time: “I’ll just pop round for a bit.” Comes back past midnight. Some days, I wonder who the real Mrs. Carter is—me or his mum.
Margaret asks about her grandson… *through James*. Never once to me. Never offers to help, never comes over to give me even an hour’s break. But she’s full of demands: “James, darling, don’t forget to come round—the cupboard needs fixing, and then the kitchen tiles.”
I’m exhausted. Exhausted of being alone while married. Exhausted of watching our son reach for his dad, only for James to walk straight past, shower in silence, eat, and collapse into bed. I’ve tried talking to him—explained we need a *family*, not his never-ending quest for his mother’s approval. He just shrugs:
*”I’m not out drinking, am I? I bring money home. What more do you want? Should I hand in my notice?”*
Yes, he brings money. But money, I can earn. What I *can’t* give our son is a father who’s always at his grandmother’s beck and call. I don’t need a paycheck. I need a *husband*. A partner. A friend. A dad for our boy.
So here I sit. Surrounded by toys, nappies, and this bone-deep weariness. Feeling discarded. Forgotten. Alone. Even with a wedding ring on my finger.
