**Diary Entry: Divorce in May**
He left in May, slamming the door behind him, off to someone “younger and prettier.” But thats just a footnote now.
My husband was ordinary. Before marriage, he seemed thoughtful, charming, full of all the tired clichés from romantic poetry. Then the trial version ended, and the full licence revealed its limitations.
Nothing criminal, of course. Just a constant thornthe way he counted every penny, always twisting the numbers.
Yes, he earned about two hundred pounds more than me (wages fluctuated, but not by much). To him, that made him the “provider,” while I carried the household on my back. Expenses? He had his own logic.
If the spending was “for the house,” then it was his money spent *on me*.
“For the house” meant the car with its three-hundred-pound monthly paymentsthe one he used to drive me to Tesco once a week.
“For the house” (read: *for me*) were the blankets, towels, pots, the bathroom repairs.
“For me” were the kids clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor visits.
“For me” was paying the bills because *I* handled them. If the money left my hand, it was *my* spending.
All of it, in his eyes, was “the wifes costs.” Meanwhile, his share? Barely a dent in the family budget. To himto his *family*I was a “financial drain.” Earned less, spent almost everything he brought in. He loved asking, at months end, how much was left. And, of course, there was never anything.
His favourite line in the last year? *”We need to cut your expenses. You always want too much.”* And so he did.
At first, we each kept a hundred pounds for personal spending, the rest went to shared costs. Then he decided to keep the difference in our salariesso an extra two hundred for him, while I stayed with my hundred.
Later, he trimmed his contribution by another hundred. His reasoning? *”Your shampoo costs five quid, and I use soap.”*
By the end, I had five hundred pounds a month for groceries, the car payment, the kid. Two hundred from him, three from me. It never stretched far enough.
I stopped saving my hundred, poured my whole wagefour hundredinto the house. Lived on scraps, occasional bonuses, all while hearing how *I* was the reckless one. How *he* was the one keeping us afloat. How hed tighten the belt even more.
*”Why didnt you leave sooner?”*
Because I was a fool. I believed him. And his mother. And mine. They convinced me it was truehe was the provider, and I just couldnt manage money. I wore threadbare clothes, counted every penny, swallowed painkillers and skipped the dentist because the NHS waiting list was endless, and I couldnt afford private care.
Meanwhile, he blew three hundred a month on himself. Bragged about “managing his budget.” New phones, designer trainers, an absurdly priced subwoofer for the car.
Then we divorced. The great “provider” flew into the arms of someone who didnt wear hand-me-downs, who went to the gym, who didnt spend nights scraping meals together or knitting socks from leftover wool.
I cried, of course. How would I survive without his “support,” with a child to raise? I braced for disaster, terrified.
Until my paycheck came. Or rather, it landed as usualbut this time, there was money *left*. Before, Id already be overdrawn by payday. Then the next one arrived. And the money piled up.
I sat down. Wiped my tears, grabbed a sheet of paper, and added it up. “Income” and “Outgoings.” Yes, his salary was goneor rather, the two hundred hed tossed my way (while keeping three for himself). The car payment vanished toothree hundred pounds.
Groceries? Less than half what I used to spend. No one sneered that chicken wasnt *real* meat. No demands for pork chops, steak, or heartier soups. No turned-up noses at cheap cheese. No beer. No sweets vanishing in minutes.
And no one said, *”Your bakings rubbish. Order a pizza.”*
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!! God, I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!!
I tossed the old clothes, bought simple, decent ones. Went to the hairdresser for the first time in five years.
After the divorce, he started sending something for the kid. Seventy quidcovered nursery and football club.
At Christmas, he gave me an extra fifty, with the note: *”Buy him a proper present. Dont waste it on yourselfI know how you are.”*
*”On myself.”* I laughed. With money in my pocket since the split, Id bought my son everything he asked for. A toy telescope, Lego, a kids watch.
With a bonus, I finally redid his bedroom. For Christmas? A huge cage with two guinea pigs and all the trimmings.
In December, I took a promotionsomething Id never have considered before. *”When would I have time?”* Now I do. No need to cook feasts or stockpile food.
Best of all? No one calls me a parasite. No one grinds me down. (Well, except his mother, who pops over “to see her grandson” and photographs everythingthe fridge, the clothes, the flat.)
Now Im on the sofa, eating pineapple, watching my son carefully feed the guinea pigs*”Mum, did I put the food right?”*and I feel… good. Without him. Without his money.
And to hell with the house I sold to split the flats value. Freedom and peace are worth more.
Anonymous.
