**Freedom’s Worth More Than Money**
June marked the end of my marriage. My husband walked out, slamming the door behind him, leaving for someone “younger and more glamorous.” The details hardly matter now. Back when we met, Valentine—my ex—was pure charm: flowers, sweet words, endless romance. But after the wedding, the trial version of the “perfect husband” expired, and the full edition came with far fewer features. Nothing outrageous, just one persistent thorn in my side. He became obsessed with money, tallying every penny with a spiteful precision.
His salary was slightly higher than mine—just about £200 more. To him, that made him the “breadwinner” and me the household help. But his logic for spending was twisted. Anything “for the house” counted as his generosity toward me. The car on finance, £400 a month, which he used once a week to drive me to the supermarket? “For the house.” The curtains, the pans, the kitchen renovation? “For the house.” But our son’s clothes, toys, nursery fees, doctor visits? “For you.” The utility bills I paid? “For you.” In his mind—and his mother’s—I was a “black hole” draining his earnings. Every month, he’d sneer, “How much is left?” Nothing, of course.
His favourite line in that last year was: “You need reining in—you want too much.” And he did rein me in. First, we agreed to keep £200 each, the rest into shared expenses. Then he kept £500 for himself, leaving me with £200. Later, he slashed his contribution by another £200, declaring, “Your £10 moisturiser is a luxury—I make do with soap.” Eventually, I was left with £1,100 for the house, groceries, bills, and the car. It wasn’t enough. I stopped saving my share, pouring my entire £900 salary into keeping us afloat, living off rare bonuses while he lectured me about my “appetites.”
Why didn’t I leave sooner? Foolishness. I believed him, his mum, even my own mother—that I was bad with money, that he was “providing.” I wore threadbare clothes, swallowed painkillers instead of visiting the dentist, because NHS waitlists were endless and private care unaffordable. Meanwhile, Valentine splurged £700 a month on gadgets, trainers, car upgrades, bragging about his “financial discipline.”
Then—divorce. My “provider” flew off to a woman who didn’t darn old jumpers or budget meals but glossed her lips and gym-toned her body. I cried myself to sleep. How would I manage alone? I cut costs further, terrified.
But then my salary came in. And—miracle—there was money left. Before, I’d already be dipping into overdraft. By payday, there was even more. I sat down, wiped my tears, and crunched the numbers. Yes, his wage—or rather, the meagre £400 he contributed—was gone. But so was the car finance. Grocery bills halved. No more complaints that chicken “wasn’t meat,” no demands for steaks, greasy stews, or posh sausages. No scowls at £2 cheese, no insistence on £6 blocks. No beer to buy, no sweets vanishing by the kilo. No hissed, “Your cooking’s rubbish—order pizza.”
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED. God, the relief! I tossed the rags I’d been ashamed to wear at the nursery gate, bought simple new clothes. Visited a hairdresser for the first time in six years. Post-divorce, Valentine begrudgingly paid £160 in child support—enough for nursery and swimming lessons. At Christmas, he “generously” added £100, texting, “Buy the boy fruit and a proper gift—none of your nonsense.” “My nonsense”? Drunk on freedom and spare cash, I bought our son everything he’d wished for: a cheap microscope, a Lego set, smartwatches. With a bonus, I redid his room. 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 who’d keep the house? Turns out, I could. No more hours over the stove, no more homemade dumplings (“I provide, and you serve me shop-bought?”). No one calls me a gold-digger or grinds my nerves. Just the ex-mother-in-law popping by “to see her grandson,” snapping photos of the fridge and décor—doubtless for her son’s audit.
Now, I lounge on the sofa, nibbling mango, watching our son fret over hamster care: “Enough food? Enough water? Carrots sliced right?” And for the first time, I’m at peace. Without Valentine, without his money. Yes, I had to sell Gran’s cottage to buy out his share of the flat. But freedom’s worth more.
