**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 someone younger and prettier. But thats just details now.
My husband was ordinary. Before marriage, he seemed attentive and gentle, like something from a romantic poem. Then the trial version ended, and the full version revealed its flaws.
Nothing criminal, of course. But there was always a thorn. He started counting penniesalways with his own twist.
Yes, he earned, on average, two hundred pounds more than me (our wages fluctuated, but not much). And so, he was the provider, while I carried the household on my back. Expenses, though, he calculated with peculiar logic.
If the shopping was for the house, then he had spent it on *me.*
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, and doctor visits.
For me was paying bills, because I handled them. And if the 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 budget. To him and his family, I was a financial drain. I earned less and spent nearly everything he brought home. He loved, at months end, to ask snidely how much was left. Of course, there was never anything.
In our last year together, his favourite line was: *We need to cut your expenses. You always want too much.* And hed slash them.
At first, we agreed to keep a hundred pounds each for personal spending, the rest going to shared costs. Then he decided to pocket the difference in our wages too. So he kept two hundred. I kept my hundred.
Later, he recalculated and cut his contribution by another hundred. The reason? *Your shampoo costs a fiver. 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 saving my hundred and dumped my entire wagefour hundredinto the house. I scraped by on bonuses and odd bits, all while hearing I was reckless. That *he* was supporting *me*. And that hed tighten the belt even more.
*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* was the provider, and *I* couldnt manage money. I wore threadbare clothes, counted every penny, swallowed painkillers, skipped the dentist because the NHS wait was endless and I couldnt afford private care.
Meanwhile, he blew three hundred a month on whims. Proudly boasted about budgeting. Bought new phones, brand-name trainers, a ridiculous 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 crafting meals from scraps or knitting socks for our son from leftover wool.
Me? I cried. How would I survive without his support, with a child to raise? I braced for the worst.
Then the paycheque came. Or rather, it landed as usual, but this timemoney remained. *Lots* of it. Before, Id already maxed the credit card by payday.
Then the bonus arrived. The numbers grew.
I sat. Wiped my eyes. Grabbed paper. Started adding. *Income. Outgoings.* Yes, his wage was goneor rather, the two hundred hed left me (he always kept three for himself). Gone too, the car paymentthree hundred.
Groceries? Less than half. No one complained chicken wasnt *proper* meat. No one demanded pork chops, steak, or richer soups. No one sneered at cheap cheese. No one asked for beer. Sweets didnt vanish in minutes.
And no one said: *Your cakes are rubbish. I want pizza.*
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!! God, I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!!
I threw out the old clothes, bought new onessimple, but decent. Went to the hairdresser for the first time in five years.
After the divorce, he sent some money for our sonseventy pounds, which covered nursery and football club.
At Christmas, he sent fifty more, with the note: *Buy the kid something decent, and dont blow it on yourselfI know how you are.*
*On myself.* I laughed. With money in my pocket since we split, Id bought my son everything he wanted. A simple telescope, Lego, a kids watch.
With a bonus, I finally redid his bedroom. That Christmas, I got him a giant cage with two guinea pigs and all the trimmings.
In December, I took a promotionbefore, Id have never dared. *When would I do everything at home?* Now I do. No need to cook stews or stockpile food.
Best of all? No one calls me a parasite. No one grinds my nerves. (Well, except his ex-mum, who drops by to see her grandson and photographs everythingthe fridge, the clothes, the house.)
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 sod the cottage I sold to give him half the flats value. Freedom and peace are worth more.
*Author unknown.*
