**Diary Entry**
I thought I’d teach my wife a lesson, but in the end, I was the one left with nothing.
After Lily got a promotion at the bank, she changed. The quiet, gentle woman I married became sharp-tongued and demanding. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “What’s with all the complaints?” I muttered to myself. “Things were fine before.” She nagged me about doing nothing at home—why was cooking, cleaning, and childcare all on her? But I didn’t see the issue. “In a modest three-bed in Manchester, what’s there for a bloke to do? The shelves are up, the taps don’t leak. And cooking? That’s not a man’s job.”
Once, I asked for borscht, hinting she should make it. Her reply? “Peel the veg yourself, then I’ll cook.” I snapped. “That’s your job—you’re the woman!” Lily started staying late at work, and our son was always the last one picked up from nursery. I felt bad for the lad, but go myself? What if they asked me to shift a wardrobe or fix a pipe?
I was sure she’d stopped appreciating me. I grumbled often: “Why’d you even take that promotion? Should’ve stayed quiet—kept things how they were.” She’d shrug. “Then climb the ladder yourself. Earn more, and I’ll step back, cook your meals, mind our boy. But we can’t live on two wages anymore—Mum’s got her own bills now.” I’d fume. “All because she fancies a new kitchen!”
I’d never chased promotions. Watching my manager slog weekends away, I’d say, “No thanks—I clock out on time.” But Lily’s nagging festered, until I resolved, “Fine. If she wants to be the boss, let her see how lonely it gets.” I stayed late at work, then took up with a colleague—Claire from accounts. Plain but curvy, with a soft voice and endless apple crumbles.
Claire had a toddler, but that didn’t bother me. With her, I felt needed—cosy blankets, warm dinners, admiring glances. We met more often. Meanwhile, Lily’s mum fetched our son—Lily was buried in some big project. “Good,” I thought. “She doesn’t cook, I don’t starve. Claire feeds me, praises me. Fair’s fair.” But Claire had rules. If I showed up empty-handed—no chocolates, perfume, or a bit of cash for “something nice”—her smile faded. Dinners got plainer, affection cooler.
It gnawed at me, but I shrugged it off. “So what? She doesn’t demand love—just attention and a few quid. Wait till Lily hears I’m leaving—she’ll sing a different tune.” When Claire straight-faced asked for a fur coat, I knew the game was up.
I stormed home, waited for Lily, and scowled. “Enough. I’m a man—I want dinner, a tidy house, fresh socks! You’re home before me—why no soup? Or is laundry beneath you?”
Lily wordlessly hung up her coat, dropped her bag, and sighed. “That it?”
“No!” I boomed. “I’m leaving! For a woman who values me! My bags are packed—live alone!”
“Good,” she said, nodding. “Go. Sick of living with a lazy whinger. And leave the flat—I paid the mortgage alone. Solicitor will confirm you never chipped in.”
Boiling water couldn’t have shocked me more. Where were the pleas? The tears? I expected her to cling, beg me to stay. Instead—cold, hard facts.
Fuming, I grabbed my bag and marched to Claire’s. Knocked boldly. “Love, I’m yours now. For good!” She opened up, eyed me head to toe, and folded her arms.
“Who said you could move in? I’ve a kid, a rented flat, a pittance salary. You’re not the fix—you’re a drain. Won’t pay? Sod off.”
The door slammed. There I stood on the landing—bag in hand, pride in tatters. Unwanted by wife or mistress. Truly alone, for the first time in years.
