**Diary Entry 15th May**
It ended in Mayhe walked out, slamming the door for someone “younger and prettier.” But thats just the footnote.
My husband was ordinary. Before marriage, he played the partattentive, charming, every cliché from a romantic novel. Then the trial version expired, and reality set in.
Nothing illegal, just insidious. The penny-pinching began, always twisted in his favour. He earned, on average, £200 more than me (salaries fluctuated, but not by much). That, to him, made him the “provider,” while I carried the weight of the household. His accounting was creative.
If something was “for the house,” hed spent it *on me*.
The car£300 a month in repaymentswas “for the house,” though he only drove me to Tesco once a week.
Blankets, towels, pans, fixing the looall “for the house,” meaning *for me*.
Our sons clothes, nursery fees, doctor visits? *My* expenses. Paying bills? *My* responsibility, because I handled them. Money left my hands, so it was *my* spending.
To him, *his* share of the family budget was barely a pittance. To his family, I was a “financial drain”earning less, yet somehow spending *his* money. Hed smirk at months end, asking how much was left. There never was.
His favourite line in our last year: *”We need to cut back on your spending. You always want too much.”* And hed slash my budget.
At first, we each kept £100 for personal use; the rest went to shared costs. Then he claimed the wage gapso he kept £200, I kept £100. Later, he trimmed another £100. His reasoning? *”Your shampoo costs a fiver. I use soap.”*
By the end, I had £500 a month for *everything*groceries, the car, our child. He contributed £200; I covered £300. It was never enough. I stopped saving my £100, pouring my full £400 salary into the house. I scraped by on bonuses, enduring lectures about my “wastefulness,” how *he* was supporting me, how the belt would tighten further.
*”Why didnt you leave sooner?”*
Because I was a fool. I believed him. And his mother. And mine. They convinced me it was true*he* was the provider, *I* couldnt manage money. I wore threadbare clothes, counted pennies, swallowed painkillers, delayed dentist visits (NHS waitlists were long, and private care was unthinkable).
Meanwhile, he blew £300 monthly on *his* whims, boasting about “budgeting.” New phones, designer trainers, a ridiculous subwoofer for the car.
Then we divorced. The great “provider” flew into the arms of a woman who doesnt wear second-hand clothes, who hits the gym instead of scraping meals together or knitting socks from leftover wool.
Of course, I wept. How would I survive without his “support,” with a child to raise? I braced for ruin.
Then my pay came in. Andfor oncethere was money left. *Actual money.* Before, Id already maxed my credit card by payday.
Next month, even more.
I sat down. Wiped my tears. Did the maths. *Income. Outgoings.* Yes, his salary was goneor rather, the £200 hed grudgingly shared (while hoarding £300 for himself). The car payment? Gone£300 saved.
Groceries? Halved. No complaints that chicken “wasnt proper meat,” no demands for pork chops, steak, or hearty soups. No scowls at cheap cheese. No beer. No sweets vanishing in minutes.
No one sneered, *”Your cakes are rubbish. Order pizza.”*
**I GOT MY TEETH FIXED.** God, *I got my teeth fixed!*
I tossed my ragged clothes, bought simple, decent ones. Went to a hairdresser for the first time in five years.
Post-divorce, he begrudgingly sent £70 a month for our soncovers nursery and football club.
At Christmas, he added £50 with a note: *”Get him a proper present. Dont waste it on yourselfI know how you are.”*
*Myself.* I laughed. With money in my pocket, Id already bought our boy everything he wanted: 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 accepted a promotionsomething Id never have considered before. *”When would I have time?”* Now I do. No elaborate stews, no stocking the fridge to bursting.
Best of all? No one calls me a parasite. No one grinds me down. (Well, his mother still “visits” our son, snapping photos of the fridge, our clothes, the flat.)
Now Im on the sofa, eating pineapple, watching my son carefully feed the guinea pigs*Mum, did I put the food in the right spot?*and Im *happy*. Without him. Without his money.
And sod the grandmothers house I sold to split the flats value. Freedomand peaceare worth more.
*(Author Unknown)*
