“You can’t even dream of divorce! No one in our family has ever stooped so low! You married her, so deal with it! You made your bed, now lie in it—and don’t you dare tarnish our family’s honor with this nonsense!” That’s how my mother has been yelling at me for years now. Neither she nor my brother offers a shred of support. Their answer is always the same, like a broken record: “Suck it up! Everyone lives like this!” But I’m sick to death of it.
They’re right about one thing—I picked my wife myself. No one forced me into it. It was my choice, and mine alone. But back then, I was blind, seeing the world through some ridiculous rose-tinted glasses, oblivious to the harsh reality. And then those glasses shattered. We tied the knot five years ago in a sleepy little town in the English countryside, near Cornwall, where everyone knows everyone else’s business. Within a year of marriage, I realized this life was a waking nightmare. It’s not about the romance fading or the daily grind wearing me down. No, I finally saw my wife for who she really is—and she’s nothing like the woman I thought I’d married.
Turns out, she’s not the quiet, home-loving type I imagined. She’s a lazy slob who cares about nothing beyond the TV and gossiping with the neighbors. At first, I was thrilled—we’d stay home together, cozy, a proper family. But then it hit me: she’s got no interests, no drive. She forbids me from going anywhere, even to see my mates, barking at me: “You’re a married man now, your place is here with me!” I thought she was jealous, but now I see it’s just convenience—she wants me around to fetch, carry, and cater to her every whim while she lounges about.
I used to think she was a brilliant woman, undervalued at work. Now it’s crystal clear: she’s useless, idle, and full of herself. People have told her time and again to upskill, to learn something new, but she snaps back, “I already know everything I need to.” And so she sits, stagnant. Here I am, stuck with a lazy, deceitful lump who has no ambition, occasionally grumbles, and sometimes picks fights. She’s always been this way—I was just too much of a fool to see it. Love must’ve blinded me. When I finally realized my wife isn’t a rock I can lean on but a dead weight dragging me into the abyss, I started thinking about divorce. At first, I tried to shake her up, push her to grow, but soon enough I understood: she’ll never change. All I get are arguments and shouting matches.
Then came the news—she was pregnant. For a brief moment, she perked up, started bustling about, even landed a new job. I let myself hope. But it didn’t last—she slid right back into her lazy ways. I tried opening up to my mother. My friends had vanished—I’d stopped seeing them, trying not to rile my wife. But talking to Mum didn’t help. She just dismisses me: “You’re making it all up! You’ve got it good, and you’re blowing it out of proportion. She doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you, doesn’t slack off completely. Beer doesn’t count. No mistress either. She goes to work.”
I first mentioned divorce when our son was still a tiny thing. Mum insisted it was just exhaustion from sleepless nights. “Where are you gonna go? You live in her house, you’re out of work, with a kid in tow. Don’t come crawling to me! A man’s supposed to stay with his wife and tough it out. Stop spouting this rubbish!”
I mulled it over and calmed down for a bit. But the idea of divorce kept gnawing at me. Every day with her feels more unbearable. Money’s always tight, and she has the gall to blame me: “You don’t earn enough, you spend too much!” She doesn’t see an ounce of fault in herself. She doesn’t lift a finger around the house. I tried venting to Mum again, and she says, “Things’ll get easier once you’re back at work.” But when I brought up divorce again, she exploded: “What are you thinking? You think being a divorced dad is a walk in the park? Your son’ll grow up without a mother! You want to destroy this family? Don’t you dare disgrace us! How? A divorced son with a kid on his hands—that’s the shame!”
She keeps pointing to my brother as some shining example: he puts up with his wife, even when she smacks him around now and then, and he doesn’t leave—kids are growing up fine. But is that normal? Sure, compared to him, my situation might seem bearable. But this isn’t a life—it’s a bloody torment!
These past few months, my wife’s gotten bolder: “If you don’t like it, pack your bags and get out!” And go where? Mum won’t take me in. I’ve got no money to rent a place. My son’s only a year old, and I’m already at my breaking point. I rang up my old boss, had a heart-to-heart. He’s willing to take me back, but what about my boy? Who’d look after him? And where would we live? I’d need to find at least a room somewhere.
And who’s going to help me? My boss is my only shot. If he comes up with something workable, I’ll jump at it, no questions asked. I don’t care what Mum says, what the relatives think. I’m done bending over backwards for everyone. I want to live my life, not rot in this hellhole forever. It can’t get worse than this. I’ll claw my way out, maybe not right away, but I’ll sort my life out one way or another.
