My husband has vanished between work and his mother, and I’m drowning in loneliness…
For over a year now, it’s like I’ve been living alone. Officially, I’m married—we have a child, a home—but my husband… he might as well not exist. He’s either at work late or disappearing into his mother’s flat. The worst part? He doesn’t see a problem with it. Not a shred of empathy, not a hint of understanding. To him, everything’s fine: he works, helps his mum, and comes home just to sleep.
Everyone says, “Hang in there, once your maternity leave ends, things will improve.” But I know it’s not about the leave. It’s about finally opening my eyes. Before, I made excuses—his job was stressful, he was tired—but now I see the truth. Our family is crumbling, slowly but surely.
We live in Manchester, in an ordinary two-bed flat. I’m on maternity leave with our baby boy. My husband, James, works for a big logistics firm—recently got a promotion. Ever since, he’s barely been home. Back by midnight, up at dawn, gone again. And when he’s not working? His mother’s place.
Margaret, his mum, has always had a way of pulling him in. After the baby was born, the “emergencies” began—a loose socket, a leaky pipe, a door that won’t shut. At first, it was harmless, but now it’s a pattern. Then, a few months ago, she suddenly decided to renovate. Right when James was swamped with work. And guess who’s paying? Our savings. His excuse? “She needs help.” Meanwhile, we’re scraping by on my maternity pay. Child benefit? A joke—barely covers half the nappies.
When James had holiday, he offered to do the work then. She refused: “It’s fine as it is.” Now? “It’s urgent! The wallpaper’s peeling, the ceiling’s cracked!” So now, every weekend, he’s there. “Just popping in,” he says. Comes back past midnight. I don’t even know who’s the real woman in his life—me or his mother.
Margaret asks about her grandson… through James. Never once to me. No offers to help, no visits to give me a break. But she’s quick to demand: “James, love, the wardrobe needs adjusting, then the tiles—don’t forget!”
I’m exhausted. Tired of being alone while married. Tired of watching our son reach for him, only for James to walk right past—shower, silent dinner, straight to bed. I’ve tried talking, explaining we need a family, not just his mother’s approval. He just waves me off:
“I’m not out drinking, am I? I bring home money—what more do you want? Should I quit my job?”
Yes, he provides. But money? I can earn that myself. What I can’t give our son is a father who’s always at his grandmother’s beck and call. I don’t need a bank account. I need a husband. A partner. A friend. A dad for our boy.
So here I sit, in this flat, surrounded by toys, nappies, and endless fatigue. Feeling abandoned. Forgotten. Alone. Even with a wedding ring on my finger.
The hardest truth? Love doesn’t disappear in a day—it fades, ignored, one missed moment at a time.
