I divorced my husband in May. He stormed out, slamming the door behind him, off to someone “younger and prettier.” But that’s neither here nor there.
My husband had been an ordinary sort. Before marriage—attentive, tender, all the trappings of romantic verse. Then the trial version ended, and the licensed version came with limited features.
Nothing criminal, mind you. But there was one thorn in my side. He started counting pennies—always with a slant. Yes, his salary was about a tenner higher than mine on average (sometimes his rose, sometimes mine, but never by much). To him, this meant he was the “breadwinner,” while I handled all the household drudgery. Expenses, however, followed his own special logic.
If it was “for the house,” then he was the one spending on me.
“For the house” meant the car with monthly loan payments of £200—the car he used to drive me to Tesco once a week.
“For the house”—that is, “for me”—included blankets, towels, pots, and the bathroom renovation.
“For me” was buying children’s clothes, toys, paying for nursery and paediatricians.
“For me” was covering the bills. Since I handled them, the money *I* spent was *my* spending.
All of this was “for the wife.” So, as it turned out, “for the husband,” barely a farthing left the family coffers. In his eyes—and his family’s—I was the “budget black hole.” I earned less but spent nearly all he made. He loved to needle me at month’s end, asking how much was left. There was never anything left.
The last year of our marriage, his favourite phrase became: “You need cutting back. You want too much.” And so he cut me back.
Early on, we’d agreed to keep £100 each for ourselves and put the rest into the household fund. Later, he decided he’d keep the difference between our salaries too—so he took £200 while my measly hundred stayed the same. Then, after some calculation, he slashed his contribution another hundred. The crowning line? “Your shampoo costs three quid, and here I am washing my hair with soap.”
By the end, the monthly allowance for the house—groceries, car payments, the child—was £500. He gave two, I gave three. Never enough, of course. I stopped saving my hundred and poured my full £400 wage into the family pot, scraping by on bonuses and odd pence—all while enduring lectures about how he kept me afloat and how he’d tighten my leash further. After all, a woman shouldn’t be mercenary.
Now, some might ask: “Why not leave sooner?”
I was foolish. I listened—to him, to his mother, to my own mother. I believed it was true: he provided; I just didn’t know how to spend. I wore rags, pinched every penny, swallowed painkillers, and put off the dentist because the NHS clinic was under renovation and I couldn’t spare the cash for private care.
Meanwhile, he had £300 a month for whims. A new phone. Designer trainers. A subwoofer for the car at some outrageous price.
And then we divorced. Off fluttered the great “provider,” leaving his frumpy wife behind for someone who didn’t dress in second-hand rags, who powdered her nose and gym-toned her body instead of scrimping to make meals stretch and knitting socks from old jumpers.
I wept, of course. What would become of me, a single mother without her breadwinner? I penny-pinched harder, dreading tomorrow.
Then came payday. My wages landed as usual—but my account still had money left. A *lot* of it. Before, by payday, I’d already be deep into my overdraft.
Then the advance came. More money piled up.
I sat down, wiped my nose, and started counting. Pen and notepad in hand, I scribbled columns: “Income” and “Outgoings.” Yes, his wages—or rather, the pitiful £200 he’d tossed into the pot—were gone. So was the £170 car loan payment.
Groceries? Now less than half what I used to spend. No one griped that chicken wasn’t proper meat. No demands for pork, beef, heartier borscht, or pricier sausages. No curled lip at budget cheese—”A working man deserves proper sandwich filling!” (I’d bought him the dearer stuff; my son and I made do.) No beer to buy. No sweets vanishing by the bucketload. No hissed, *”Your pies are rubbish. I want pizza.”*
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED. Good Lord above. I GOT MY TEETH FIXED.
I tossed out the rags I’d been ashamed to wear when fetching my son from nursery and bought cheap but new clothes. Went to a hairdresser for the first time in five years.
After the divorce, he finally coughed up child support—all of £72 a month for nursery and football club. Before Christmas, he magnanimously added an extra £50: “Buy the kid some oranges and a proper present. Don’t you dare spend it on yourself—I know how you are.”
“On myself.” Oh, how I laughed. Drunk on financial freedom, I’d given my son everything he’d ever wanted: a modest telescope, building kits, smartwatches. My bonus went to fixing up his room. For Christmas, a giant cage with two guinea pigs and all the trimmings.
In early December, I accepted a promotion—unthinkable before. More hours? “When will I manage the house?” But I *do* manage. No more vats of borscht, stuffed cabbage, or handmade dumplings (*”I’m not keeping you to eat shop-bought rubbish!”*).
Best of all? No one holds it over me. No jeers of “kept woman.” No frayed nerves (well, except his mother, who “visits her grandson” while photographing everything—fridge, clothes, the flat’s fresh paint).
Now, I lounge on the sofa, nibbling pineapple, watching my boy meticulously feed his guinea pigs (*”Mum, did I do it right? How much cabbage?”*). And I’m happy. Without him. Without his money.
So what if I had to sell Gran’s old cottage to buy him out of the flat? Freedom and peace are worth it.
