**Diary Entry – 15th May**
Divorced my husband in May. He walked out, slamming the door behind him, off to someone “younger and prettier.” But that’s beside the point.
My husband was… typical. Before marriage—attentive, affectionate, all the romantic gestures you’d expect. Then the trial period ended, and the full version turned out to be severely limited. Nothing criminal, mind you, just one persistent thorn—money. He started counting every penny, but with a skewed logic.
Yes, his salary was about £200 more than mine (though it fluctuated). That, apparently, made him the “breadwinner,” while I handled all the household drudgery. But his calculations had a special formula.
If it was “for the home,” it counted as *his* spending.
“For the home” meant the car with its £500 monthly finance payment—the same car he used to drive me to Tesco once a week.
“For the home” meant blankets, towels, pots, the bathroom renovation.
“For *me*” included our child’s clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor visits.
“For *me*” was paying the bills—because I handled them. And if *I* spent the money, it was *my* expense.
According to him, nearly everything was “for the wife.” So, shockingly, *his* contribution to the family budget was pennies. In his (and his family’s) eyes, I was a “financial black hole.” I earned less but spent almost everything *he* brought in.
He adored asking, at month’s end, “How much is left?” There was never anything left.
The last year, his favourite phrase was: “We need to curb your spending. You want too much.” And he did. At first, we agreed to keep £200 each for personal use, pooling the rest. Then he decided he’d take the difference in our salaries too—so £400 for him, £200 for me.
Later, he cut another £200 from the household contribution, smugly declaring, “Your shampoo costs £5, and I just use soap.”
By the end, I had £1,500 a month—£600 from him, £900 from me—to cover food, bills, the car, and our child. Of course, it wasn’t enough. I stopped saving my £200 and poured my entire £1,100 salary into the household, scraping by on bonuses. All while enduring lectures about how *he* supported *me*.
Why didn’t I leave sooner? Stupidity. I believed him—and his mother, and my mother—that this was how it *should* be. That I *was* being reckless with money. I wore threadbare clothes, swallowed painkillers instead of seeing the dentist (NHS waiting lists were endless, and private care was “a luxury”), while he splurged £300 monthly on gadgets, trainers, or a fancy subwoofer for the car.
Then came the divorce. Off he flew, the great “provider,” to someone who didn’t dress in charity-shop cast-offs or spend evenings knitting socks from old jumpers.
Naturally, I panicked. How would I survive alone with a child? I tightened the belt even more, dreading the future.
Then… my paycheck landed. And there was still money *left*. A *lot* of it. Before, by payday, I’d be deep into my overdraft.
Then the next wage came. More money.
I sat down, wiped my tears, and did the maths. His contribution? £600—while he kept £300 for himself. Gone too was the £500 car payment.
Groceries? Less than half what I used to spend. No complaints that “chicken isn’t *real* meat,” no demands for pricier cuts, no sneers at budget cheese (“A working man deserves proper sandwiches!”). No beer. No sweets vanishing by the bucketload. No whining, “Your pies are rubbish—I want takeaway pizza.”
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED. Oh, sweet mercy. *I got my teeth fixed.*
I tossed my shameful rags and bought affordable, *new* clothes. Visited a hairdresser for the first time in five years.
After the divorce, he started paying child support—£220 a month, barely covering nursery and football club fees. Before Christmas, he graciously added £50 “for a decent present for the kid—*not* for you, we know how you are.”
“For me.” Hilarious. Drunk on financial freedom, I finally bought my son everything he’d ever wanted—a telescope, a big Lego set, smartwatches. Used my bonus to redo his room. For Christmas? A giant guinea pig cage, complete with tunnels and hideouts.
In December, I accepted a promotion—something I’d never dared consider before. When would I have time? But now? No need to slave over vats of borscht or homemade dumplings (“I’m not paying for *shop-bought* rubbish!”).
Best of all? No one belittles me. No “gold-digger” jibes. No stress (well, except for his mother’s “visits,” where she photographs my fridge, clothes, and flat like a forensic investigator).
Now, I’m sprawled on the sofa, munching pineapple, watching my son carefully feed his guinea pigs (“Mum, is this enough cabbage?”). And it’s… peaceful.
Yes, I had to sell Grandma’s cottage to buy out his share of the flat. But freedom? Worth every brick.
