I divorced my husband in May. He walked out on me, slamming the door, to be with someone “younger and prettier.” But that’s beside the point.
My husband had been ordinary enough. Before marriage—attentive, tender, full of romantic gestures. Then the trial version ended, and the licensed version came with limited functionality.
Nothing outright criminal, of course. But there was one sore point—he started counting pennies. And always with a slant.
Yes, his salary was, on average, about ten quid more than mine (sometimes his rose, sometimes mine, but never by much). To him, this meant he was the “breadwinner,” while I handled all the household drudgery. His spending formula, however, was something special.
If a purchase was “for the house,” then it was money spent on *me*.
“For the house” meant the car, with loan payments of £170 a month—the same car he drove me to Tesco in once a week for groceries.
“For the house”—meaning “for me”—were blankets, towels, pots and pans, the bathroom renovation.
“For me” were the children’s clothes, toys, nursery fees, and the paediatrician’s bills.
“For me” were the utility bills. After all, *I* paid them. And if I was the one spending, then clearly they were *my* expenses.
All of it was “for the wife.” So, as it turned out, barely a penny from the family budget was ever spent “on the husband.” And in his eyes—and his family’s—I was a “money pit.” I earned less, yet I spent nearly everything he brought in. He loved to jab at the end of the month, asking how much was left. There was never anything left, of course.
In that final year, his favourite phrase became: “We need to curb your spending. You want too much.” And so he cut me back.
Early on, we’d agreed we’d each keep £100 for ourselves and put the rest into the household budget. Then he decided he’d take the difference between our salaries too. So he kept £200 for himself, while my “personal allowance” stayed at £100.
Later, he did some more mental arithmetic and slashed his contribution by another £100. His key argument? “Your shampoo costs £3, and I wash my hair with a bar of soap.”
In the end, during that last year, I was given £500 a month to cover groceries, the car loan, and our child’s expenses. He contributed £200. I put in £300. It was never enough.
I stopped setting aside money for myself and poured my entire £400 paycheck into keeping us afloat. My rare bonuses or tiny extra earnings went to myself—all while listening to him boast about how he supported me and how he planned to “rein me in even further.” After all, I had no right to be so *grasping*.
To those who’d ask, “Why didn’t you leave sooner?”—I was a fool. I listened to him. To his mother. To my own mother. I believed him when he said this was just how things were: *he* provided, and *I* simply couldn’t manage money. I wore threadbare clothes. Pinched every penny. Swallowed painkillers and postponed the dentist because the NHS clinic was under renovation, and I couldn’t afford a private visit.
Yet every month, he had £300 for his whims. He bragged about his “financial discipline” while buying himself a new phone, branded trainers, or an absurdly expensive subwoofer for his car.
Then came the divorce. The grand “provider” fluttered off, leaving his shabby ex-wife behind for someone who didn’t dress in second-hand rags, who powdered her nose and worked out at the gym—someone who didn’t spend evenings scrimping over meals or knitting socks for the child out of old jumpers.
Of course, I wept. How would I manage alone with a child? I tightened my belt further, dreading the future.
Then payday came. I mean, it arrived as usual—but this time, I still had money left. A *lot* of money. Before, by the time my salary landed, I’d already be dipping into my overdraft.
Then my advance came, and the sum grew even larger.
I sat down, wiped my nose, and started counting.
I grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper and began listing income and expenses. True, I’d “lost” his salary—or rather, the meagre £200 he’d contributed (while keeping £300 for himself). And no more £170 car payments.
I was spending less than half what I used to on groceries. No one complained that chicken wasn’t “proper meat,” demanded pork or beef, or turned up their nose at budget cheese (“A working man deserves decent sandwiches!”). No more beer to buy. No sweets vanishing by the bucketload.
And no one ever whined, “Your pies are rubbish—I want takeaway.”
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!!! Good Lord. I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!!!
I threw out the rags I’d been ashamed to wear when picking up my son from nursery and bought affordable, new clothes. I went to a hairdresser for the first time in five years.
After the divorce, he finally started paying child support—a princely £72, barely covering nursery and footie club fees. Before Christmas, he magnanimously added an extra £50, texting, “Buy the kid some oranges and a proper present, not yourself—I know how you are.”
“Myself.” Oh, that was rich. Drunk on the novelty of having money, I’d already bought my son everything he’d ever wanted—a modest telescope, building blocks, a smartwatch for kids. I finally redecorated his room with my bonus. For Christmas, I got him a huge cage with two guinea pigs and all the trimmings.
In early December, I accepted a promotion—something I’d never dared consider before. More hours? But when would I manage the housework? Except—I did. No more vats of borscht or hours rolling dough for dumplings (“I’m not keeping you to feed me ready-made rubbish!”).
Best of all—no one sneered at me. No one called me a gold-digger. No one frayed my nerves (well, except his mother, who still drops by to “see her grandson” while photographing everything—the fridge, the furniture, the flat’s makeover).
Now I’m sprawled on the sofa, nibbling pineapple, watching my son carefully tend to his guinea pigs (“Mum, did I put this right?” “Is this enough water?” “How much cabbage?”), and I’ve never been happier. Free of him and his money.
So what if I had to sell Granny’s cottage to buy out his share of the flat? Freedom and peace are worth every penny.
—Author unknown.
