Freedom Costs More Than Money
Last June, I got divorced. My husband walked out and slammed the door behind him, running off to someone he called “younger and more striking.” The details don’t matter now. Back when we first met, Valentine was all charm—flowers, sweet words, romance. But once we signed the papers, the trial version of the “perfect husband” expired, and the full version came with limited features. Nothing outrageous, but one nagging flaw poisoned everything: he started counting pennies—with a sadistic twist.
His salary was slightly higher than mine—about £150 more. That made him the “breadwinner” and me, in his eyes, the household help. But he had his own logic for tracking expenses. Anything “for the home” was framed as his generosity to me. “For the home” meant the car on finance, costing £200 a month, which he used to drive me to the supermarket once a week. “For the home” included curtains, pots, and kitchen renovations. “For me” was our son’s clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor visits. “For me” was the utility bills—since I paid them, they were *my* expenses. In his ledger, it all fell under “wife’s spending.” Meanwhile, he insisted he barely spent on himself. To him and his family, I was a “black hole” draining his wages. Earn less, spend more—that was his refrain. Every month, he’d sneer, “How much is left?” Nothing, of course.
The last year of our marriage, his favourite line was, “You need reigning in—you want too much.” So he reined me in. First, we agreed to keep £100 each for ourselves, the rest going to joint funds. Then he claimed the difference in our wages—keeping £250 for himself, leaving me with my usual £100. Later, he cut his contribution by another £100, declaring, “Your £5 face cream is a luxury—I get by with soap.” In the end, he allotted £550 for the house, groceries, finance payments, and our son: £200 from him, £350 from me. It still wasn’t enough. I stopped saving my £100, pouring my entire £450 salary into the household. I survived on rare bonuses and scraps, listening to him boast about how he “provided” while threatening to slash my “appetites” further. Call me mercenary.
Why didn’t I leave sooner? I was a fool. I believed him, his mother, my mother. I thought he was right—I was bad with money, and he was carrying me. I wore threadbare clothes, pinched every penny, choked down painkillers instead of seeing a dentist—NHS waitlists were endless, and private care was out of reach. Meanwhile, Valentine blew £350 a month on his “treats”: a new smartphone, designer trainers, a sound system for the car that cost a small fortune. He’d brag about his “financial genius.”
Then—divorce. My “provider” fluttered off to someone who didn’t patch old jumpers, who painted her lips and hit the gym instead of scraping meals together or knitting mittens from unravelled wool. I cried myself to sleep. How would I manage alone with a child? I tightened the belt further, terrified of the future.
But then my paycheck landed. And—miracle—there was money left. A lot. Before, I’d already be dipping into overdraft by then. The next payday came, and there was even more. I sat down, wiped my tears, and began the sums. Income, outgoings—all in neat columns. Yes, his salary—or at least, the measly £200 he contributed—was gone. But so was the £200 car finance. Grocery bills halved. No one complained chicken wasn’t “proper meat,” no demands for steak, richer stews, or fancy sausages. No one turned up their nose at £2 cheese, insisting on the £6 kind. No beer to buy, no mountains of sweets vanishing. No snide remarks like, “Your cooking’s rubbish—order pizza.”
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED! God, it felt good. I chucked the rags I’d been ashamed to pick our son up in and bought simple, new clothes. Visited a hairdresser for the first time in six years. Post-divorce, Valentine started paying £80 in child support—enough for nursery and swimming lessons. Before Christmas, he “generously” tacked on an extra £50 with a note: “Buy the kid decent fruit and a proper gift—don’t you dare spend it on yourself.” “On myself”—hilarious. Drunk on freedom and actual cash in my purse, I got our son everything he’d wanted: an affordable microscope, a Lego set, smartwatch. With my bonus, I redid his bedroom. For Christmas, he got a hamster cage with all the trimmings.
In November, I took a promotion I’d once been too afraid to consider. More work? What about the house? But I manage. No hours slaving over dumplings (“I’m not keeping you to eat supermarket junk!”). No one calls me a gold-digger or grinds my nerves to dust. Only my ex-mother-in-law drops by “to see her grandson,” snapping photos of the fridge and decor—likely reporting back to her son.
Right now, I’m sprawled on the sofa, eating mango, watching our son fuss over the hamsters. “Did I put enough food? Is the water right? Should I chop the carrot like this?” And I’m calm. Without Valentine—without his money. Yes, I had to sell Gran’s cottage to buy out his share of the flat. But freedom and peace? Worth every penny.
