My husband vanishes between work and his mother, and I’m drowning in loneliness…
It’s been over a year now, and I might as well be living alone. Officially, I’m married—I have a child, a home—but my husband? He’s never here. He’s either working late or disappearing into his mother’s flat. The worst part? He doesn’t see anything wrong with it. No sympathy, no understanding. To him, everything’s fine: he works, helps his mum, and comes home just to sleep.
Friends keep saying, “Hang on, once your maternity leave ends, things will get better.” But I know it’s not about that. I’ve just stopped making excuses for him. Before, I’d defend him— shout he’s tired, his job’s demanding—but now? Now I see our family crumbling, bit by bit.
We live in Manchester, in an ordinary two-bed flat. I’m on maternity leave with our little boy. My husband, Oliver, works for a big logistics company—he was recently promoted. Since then, he’s practically vanished. Comes home near midnight, leaves at dawn. And when he’s not working? His “second home” is his mother’s place.
Margaret, his mum, started pulling him over constantly after our son was born—always with some excuse: a loose socket, a leaky pipe, a jammed door. Fine if it were occasional, but it’s turned into a habit. Then, a few months ago, she suddenly decided to redecorate. Right when Oliver’s swamped with work. And guess who’s footing the bill? My husband. Us? We’re scraping by on what’s left after his visits to her. Child benefits? A joke—they barely cover half the nappies.
When Oliver had holiday time, he offered to help her redecorate then. She refused: “It’s fine as it is, no need to change anything.” Now? It’s urgent! The wallpaper’s peeling, the ceiling’s crooked… So now, every weekend, he’s there. “I’ll just pop round for a bit,” he says—then strolls in past midnight. Honestly, I don’t know who’s the main woman in his life anymore—me or his mum.
As for her grandchild? Margaret’s interested… through Oliver. Not once has she asked me for updates, offered to help, or come over to give me a break. But she’s quick to order him: “Ollie, don’t forget to stop by—the cupboard needs fixing, then the tiles after.”
I’m exhausted. Exhausted from being alone with a husband who’s alive but absent. Exhausted watching our son reach for his dad, only for Oliver to kick off his shoes, shower in silence, eat, and pass out. I’ve tried talking, explaining we need a family—not his endless chase for his mother’s approval. He just brushes me off:
“I’m not according pubs, am I? I bring home money—what more do you want? Should I quit my job?”
Yes, he brings money. But I can earn my own. What I can’t do is be a father to our son when he’s always “busy” at Grandma’s. I don’t need a cash machine. I need a husband. A partner. A friend. A dad for our boy.
And so, here I am—in this flat, surrounded by toys and nappies, bone-tired. Feeling abandoned. Forgotten. Alone. Even with a wedding ring on my finger.
