Divorce in May: He slammed the door for someone younger and prettier
I left my husband in May. He walked out, door slamming behind him, off to the one who was younger and prettier. But thats just details now.
My husband was ordinary. Before marriage, he seemed thoughtful, tender, full of romantic clichés. Then the trial version expired, and the licence turned out to be restrictive.
Nothing criminal, of course. But there was a thorn. He started counting penniesalways with distortions.
Yes, he earned, on average, two hundred pounds more than me (our wages fluctuated, but not by much). And that, in his eyes, made him the provider, while I carried the household on my back. Expenses, though, he calculated with a peculiar formula.
If the shopping was for the house, then hed spent it on my behalf.
For the house meant the car with 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, the bathroom repairs.
For me were the childs clothes and toys, nursery fees, paediatrician visits.
For me was paying the bills, since I handled them. If money left my hand, it was my spending.
All of it was for the wife. So for the husband, as it turned out, was barely a dent in the family budget. To him and his family, I was a financial black hole. I earned less and spent nearly everything he brought home. He loved asking, at months end, how much was leftalways with a smirk. Of course, there was never anything left.
In our last year together, his favourite line was: We need to cut your expenses. You always want too much. And so he cut.
At first, we agreed to keep a hundred pounds each for personal spending, the rest went to shared costs. Then he decided to keep the difference between our salaries, too. So he pocketed two hundred. I kept my hundred.
Later, he recalculated, slashing his contribution by another hundred. His reasoning? Your shampoo costs a fiver, and I wash my hair with soap.
By the end, in that final year, I had five hundred pounds a month for the house, groceries, car payments, and the child. Two hundred came from him. Three hundred from me. It was never enough.
I stopped setting aside my hundred and dumped my entire wagefour hundredinto the house. I scraped by on odd bonuses, small extras, all while hearing how wasteful I was. How he was the one keeping me afloat. How hed tighten my belt further.
Why didnt you leave sooner?
I was a fool. I believed him. And his mother. And mine. They convinced me it was all true: he supported me, and I just couldnt manage money. I wore threadbare clothes, counted every penny, swallowed painkillers, delayed dentist visits because the NHS waiting list was endless and I couldnt afford private care.
Meanwhile, he blew three hundred pounds a month on whims. Proud of his personal budgeting, he bought new phones, designer trainers, an absurdly expensive subwoofer for the car.
Then, we divorced. The great provider flew into the arms of someone who didnt wear second-hand clothes, who went to the gym, who didnt spend nights inventing meals from scraps or knitting socks for our son from leftover wool.
I cried, of course. How would I survive without his support, with a child to raise? I tightened my belt further, staring at the future in terror.
Until the paycheque came. Or rather, it landed as usualbut this time, there was money left. A lot. Before, Id already maxed the credit card by payday.
Then the bonus arrived. The money grew.
I sat down. Wiped my tears, grabbed a sheet. Started adding. Income and Outgoings. Yes, his wage was goneor rather, the two hundred hed tossed my way (since he always kept three hundred for himself). And the car paymentthree hundredvanished too.
Groceries? I spent less than half. No one moaned that chicken wasnt real meat. No one demanded pork chops, steak, or heartier soup. No one turned their nose up at cheap cheese. No one asked for beer. Sweets didnt disappear in minutes.
And no one said, Your cakes are rubbish. I want pizza.
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!! Good grief, I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!!
I binned the ragged clothes, bought new onessimple, but decent. Went to the hairdresser for the first time in five years.
After the divorce, he started sending something for the child. Seventy quid, covering nursery and footie club.
At Christmas, he slipped me another fifty, with the note: Get the lad a proper present, and dont blow 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 wanted. A simple telescope, Legos, a kids watch.
With a bonus, I finally redid his bedroom. At Christmas, I gave him a huge cage with two guinea pigs and all the trimmings.
In December, I took a promotionbefore, I wouldnt have dreamed of it. When would I get everything done at home? Now I do. No need to cook stews or cram the fridge with food.
And best of all? No one calls me a leech. No one grinds my nerves to dust. (Well, except his mother, who pops in to see her grandson and photographs everythingthe fridge, the clothes, the house.)
Now Im on the sofa, eating pineapple, watching my boy carefully feed the guinea pigsMum, did I put the food in the right spot?and I feel good. Without him. Without his money.
And sod the granny flat I had to sell to give him half the flats value. Freedom and peace are worth more.
Author unknown.
