“Freedom’s Priceless”
Last June, I got divorced. My husband stormed out, slamming the door behind him, off to someone “younger and more glamorous.” The details don’t matter now. Oliver, my ex, was all charm before the wedding—flowers, sweet nothings, grand romantic gestures. But after we signed the papers, the “perfect husband” trial version expired, and the full one came with crippling limitations. Nothing outrageous, just one petty thorn in my side: he became obsessed with money. And not in a normal way—more like some twisted power trip.
His salary was slightly higher than mine—about £200 a month more. That, in his mind, made him the “breadwinner” and me the live-in maid. But his accounting was… creative. Anything “for the house” was framed as his generous contribution. “For the house” meant the car on finance—£400 a month—which he used to drive me to Tesco once a week. “For the house” also covered curtains, pans, and the kitchen remodel. “For me”? Kid’s clothes, toys, nursery fees, doctors’ bills for our son. “For me” even included the utility bills—because I paid them, so obviously, that was *my* spending. To him and his family, I was a “black hole” sucking up his hard-earned cash. Every month, he’d smirk, “How much is left?” There was never anything left.
The last year, his favourite line was, “You need reining in—your wants are out of control.” And so he did. First, we agreed to keep £100 each for personal spending, the rest went into the joint pot. Then he decided to pocket the difference in our salaries, keeping £250 for himself while I got my same £100. Later, he slashed his contribution another £100, sneering, “Your £5 moisturiser is a luxury—I make do with soap.” In the end, I was juggling £550 for groceries, bills, the finance payment, and our son—£200 from him, £350 from me. It wasn’t enough. I stopped saving my £100, pouring my entire £450 salary into the household. I scraped by on bonuses and spare change, enduring lectures about how he “kept me afloat” and how my “greed” needed trimming.
Why didn’t I leave sooner? I was naive. I believed him, his mum, even my own mum. Maybe he was right—maybe I *was* bad with money. I wore threadbare clothes, skipped dentist appointments (NHS waiting lists were endless, and private care was out of reach), swallowed painkillers instead of fixing my teeth. Meanwhile, Oliver blew £350 a month on his “treats”—new trainers, car speakers, the latest iPhone—bragging about his “savvy budgeting.”
Then—the divorce. My “provider” fluttered off to someone who didn’t darn old jumpers or fret over feeding a family on pennies. I sobbed at night. How would I manage alone? I cut back even harder, terrified of the future.
But then my paycheck came. And—miracle—there was money left. *Actual money.* Before, I’d have been maxing out my credit card by now. When my next pay hit, there was even more. I sat down, wiped my tears, and crunched the numbers. Yes, his salary—or rather, the measly £200 he contributed—was gone. But so was the £400 car payment. Grocery bills halved. No more griping that chicken “wasn’t proper meat,” no demands for steak, fancy deli meats, or “decent” £6 cheese. No beer to buy, no sweets vanishing by the kilo. No sneering, “Your cooking’s rubbish—just order a pizza.”
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED! God, it felt good. I tossed my raggedy clothes, bought simple new ones, even got a haircut—first time in six years. Post-divorce, Oliver started paying £80 in child support, covering nursery and swimming lessons. At Christmas, he “generously” tossed in an extra £50 with a note: “Buy the kid proper fruit and a decent gift—*don’t* spend it on yourself, we both know you would.” The audacity. Drunk on freedom and leftover cash, I got my son everything he’d wanted: a budget microscope, a Lego set, smartwatch. With my bonus, I redid his bedroom. For Christmas? A hamster cage with all the trimmings.
In November, I took a promotion—something I’d never dared consider before. More work? But what about the house? Turns out, I manage fine. No more hours slaving over homemade dumplings (“I provide, and you serve me shop-bought?”). No one calls me a gold-digger or grinds my nerves. Just the odd visit from his mum, “checking on her grandson,” while slyly photographing the fridge and decor—probably reporting back to Oliver.
Now, I’m sprawled on the sofa, nibbling mango, watching my son fuss over the hamsters (“Mum, is this enough food? Water? Did I chop the carrot right?”). And for the first time in years, I’m calm. Oliver’s gone—so are his wages. Yeah, I had to sell Gran’s cottage to buy out his share of the flat. But freedom? Peace? Worth every penny.
