Freedom Is Priceless
This past June, I got divorced. My husband stormed out, slamming the door behind him, off to someone “younger and more glamorous.” The details no longer matter. Timothy, my ex, was all charm before the wedding—flowers, sweet nothings, romance. But after the registry office, the trial version of the “perfect husband” expired, and the full version came with limited features. Nothing outrageous, just one persistent annoyance that poisoned my life. He started obsessing over money—with a cruel, almost sadistic twist.
His salary was slightly higher than mine—by about £200 a month. That made him the “provider,” while I was relegated to household servant. Yet his logic dictated how expenses were counted. Purchases “for the home” were framed as his generosity toward me. “For the home” meant the car on finance, costing £400 every month, which he used once a week to drive me to the supermarket. “For the home” included curtains, frying pans, and the kitchen refurbishment. “For me” meant our son’s clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor’s bills. “For me” was also the utility bills—because I paid them. If I paid, it must be *my* spending. In his mind, and in the eyes of his family, I was a “black hole,” swallowing his hard-earned cash. I earned less but somehow spent everything he brought home. Every month, he’d sneer, “How much is left?” Of course, nothing ever was.
In the last year of our marriage, his favourite phrase became, “You need reigning in—you always want too much.” And he did rein me in. At first, we agreed to keep £200 each for personal use, the rest going into the joint pot. Then he decided to pocket the difference in our salaries, keeping £500 for himself while I got the same £200. Later, he slashed his contribution by another £200, declaring, “Your £10 face cream is a luxury—I make do with soap.” In the end, just £550 was allocated for the house, groceries, the car, and our child—£200 from him, £350 from me. But it wasn’t enough. I stopped saving my £200, pouring my entire £450 salary into the household. I survived on occasional bonuses and pitiful pay bumps, while he lectured me about being “kept” and threatened to cut my “greed” further. Apparently, I was the mercenary one.
Why didn’t I leave sooner? Because I was a fool. I believed him, his mother, my mother. I thought he was right—that I was bad with money, that he was supporting me. I wore threadbare clothes, pinched every penny, swallowed painkillers instead of visiting the dentist—because the NHS waiting list was endless, and private care was out of reach. Meanwhile, Timothy blew £700 a month on his whims: a new phone, designer trainers, a top-of-the-range sound system for the car. And he bragged about how brilliantly he managed his finances.
Then came the divorce. My “provider” fluttered off to someone who didn’t sew up old jumpers, who wore lipstick and gym clothes instead of agonising over how to stretch £20 for a family meal. I sobbed at night. How would I manage alone with a child? I scrimped even harder, terrified of the future.
But then my pay came in. And—miracle!—there was money left. *Real money*. Before, by this point, I’d already tapped into my overdraft. Then my next paycheck arrived, and there was even more. I sat down, wiped my tears, and started tallying the numbers: income, outgoings, everything in neat columns. Yes, his salary—or rather, the paltry £200 he’d contributed—was gone. But so was the £400 car payment. I spent less than half on groceries now. No one complained that chicken “wasn’t proper meat,” demanded steaks, “heartier” borscht, or expensive sausages. No one wrinkled their nose at £2 cheese, insisting on “the good stuff” for £6. No beer to buy, no sweets vanishing by the kilogram. No one snapped, “Your cooking’s rubbish, just order pizza.”
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED! God, it felt incredible. I tossed out the rags I’d been ashamed to wear when picking my son up from nursery and bought simple, new clothes. I even went to the hairdresser for the first time in six years. After the divorce, Timothy started paying child support—£160, enough for nursery and swimming lessons. Before Christmas, he “generously” added an extra £100, texting, “Buy the kid decent fruit and a proper present—not for yourself, I know how you are.” *Myself*—funny. Drunk on freedom and the cash in my purse, I bought my son everything he’d wished for: a modest microscope, a Lego set, smartwatches. With a bonus, I redecorated his room. For Christmas, I surprised him with a hamster cage, complete with all the trimmings.
In November, I accepted a promotion—something I’d never dared consider before. More work? How would I manage the house? But I *do* manage. No more slaving for hours at the stove, rolling dumplings (“I’m not keeping you to eat shop-bought rubbish!”). 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,” slyly snapping photos of the fridge and the fresh paint—no doubt reporting back to her son.
Now I’m sprawled on the sofa, nibbling mango, watching my son carefully sprinkle food for the hamsters. “Is this enough? Do they need more water? Should I cut the carrot like this?” And for the first time in years—I’m at peace. Without Timothy and his money. Sure, I had to sell Gran’s cottage in the countryside to buy out his share of the flat. But freedom and peace? Worth every penny.
