Divorce in May: He left for someone ‘younger and prettier’ and slammed the door.
I divorced my husband in May. He walked out, slamming the door, for the one who was younger and more beautiful. But those are just details now.
My husband was ordinary. Before marriage, he seemed thoughtful and considerate, full of all the clichés from romantic poetry. Later, the trial version expired, and the license proved limited.
Nothing criminal, of course. But there was a thorn. He began counting penniesalways with his own twisted logic.
Yes, on average, he earned two hundred pounds more than me (our salaries fluctuated, but not much). To him, this meant he was the breadwinner, while I shouldered the household. Expenses? He calculated them with a peculiar formula.
If purchases were for the house, then he had spent them on my behalf.
For the house meant the car with its three-hundred-pound monthly payments, which he used to drive me to Tesco once a week.
For the housemeaning for mewere the blankets, towels, pots, and the bathroom repairs.
For me included our sons clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor visits.
For me was paying the bills because I handled them. If the money left my hands, it was my spending.
All of this was the wifes. Therefore, the husbands share, as it turned out, barely made a dent in the household budget. To him and his family, I was a financial drain. I earned less and blew through nearly everything he brought home. He loved asking, sarcastically, how much was left at months end. Of course, nothing ever was.
In our last year together, his favourite line was: We must cut your expenses. You always want too much. And so he did.
At first, we agreed to keep a hundred pounds each for personal spending, with the rest going to shared costs. Then he claimed the difference between our salariesanother two hundred for himself. I stayed at a hundred.
Later, he recalculated and cut his contribution by another hundred. His reasoning? Your shampoo costs five pounds, and I wash my hair with soap.
By the end, in our final year, I had five hundred pounds a month for groceries, the car payment, and our sons needs. Two hundred came from him; three hundred from me. It was never enough.
I stopped saving my hundred and poured my entire salaryfour hundred poundsinto the house. I scraped by on occasional bonuses, all while hearing how reckless I was, how he supported me, and how hed tighten the leash further.
Why didnt you leave sooner?
Because I was foolish. I believed him. And his mother. And mine. They convinced me it was truehe carried me, and I was just bad with money. I wore threadbare clothes, counted every penny, swallowed painkillers, and avoided the dentist because the NHS waitlist was long and I couldnt afford private care.
Meanwhile, he blew three hundred a month on whims. Proudly managing his budget, he bought new phones, designer trainers, an absurdly priced subwoofer for the car.
Then we divorced. The great provider flew into the arms of a woman who didnt wear second-hand clothes, who went to the gym, who didnt spend nights cobbling meals from scraps or knitting socks for our son from leftover yarn.
I cried, of course. How would I survive without his support, with a child to raise? I braced for the worst.
Then my salary came in. Like alwaysexcept this time, I had money left. A lot. Before, Id already maxed my credit card by payday.
The next month, it grew again.
I sat down. Wiped my tears and grabbed paper. Added it up: Income and Outgoings. True, his salaryor rather, the two hundred he tossed my way (while keeping three hundred for himself)was gone. So was the car payment: three hundred pounds.
Groceries? Now half what they used to be. No one complained chicken wasnt real meat, demanded pork chops, steak, or heartier soup. No one wrinkled their nose at budget cheese or expected beer. Sweets didnt vanish in minutes.
And no one sneered, Your cakes are rubbish. Order pizza.
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!! My God, I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!!
I tossed the rags and bought new clothessimple but decent. Visited a hairdresser for the first time in five years.
After the divorce, he started sending something for our son. Seventy pounds, covering nursery and football club.
At Christmas, he gave fifty extra, with a note: Get the boy a proper presentand dont waste it on yourself, I 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 simple telescope, Lego, a childs watch.
With a bonus, I finally redid his room. For Christmas, I gifted him 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 manage everything at home? Now I do. No need to cook massive stews or stockpile food.
Best of all? No one calls me a parasite. No one grinds my nerves. (Well, except the ex-mother-in-law, who visits her grandson and photographs everythingthe fridge, our clothes, the flat.)
Now Im on the sofa, eating pineapple, watching my son carefully feed his petsMum, did I put the food in the right spot?and Im content. Without him. Without his money.
And to hell with the cottage I sold to split the flats value with him. Freedom and peace are worth more.
Author unknown.
