*Diary Entry*
I chose not to tell my husband about my pay rise. He took offence, packed his things, and left to stay with his mother.
Admitting this to myself wasn’t easy. I kept it hidden deliberately—not out of spite or greed, but exhaustion. I was tired of the constant ups and downs—one week living lavishly, the next three surviving on baked beans. Tired of the recklessness. The carefree attitude my husband, Oliver, inherited from his mother.
We met at a friend’s party. He charmed me with his easygoing nature, his charisma, the way he brushed off problems. I was the opposite—controlled, responsible, fretting over every penny. Back then, I thought, *Maybe I need someone lighthearted in my life.*
After we married, the truth settled in. His “lightheartedness” was just immaturity. Payday meant splurging—dinners out, shopping sprees, gifts for his mum, his mates, anyone. By the next day, we were skint. A month of beans on toast and empty promises that *things would get better.*
Oliver earned decently, but money slipped through his fingers. Especially when his mum got involved—a dramatic, demanding woman just as irresponsible as him. The second her pension ran out, she’d call: *I’m lonely, I’m sad, I can’t stand being poor.* And Oliver, of course, rushed to fix it.
*“She’s my mum. I can’t abandon her,”* he’d say.
*“What about us?”* I’d ask.
*“We’ll manage. Somehow,”* he’d smile.
Meanwhile, our home crumbled—literally. Peeling wallpaper, leaking pipes, a fridge rattling like a tractor. I patched things up in silence, simmering. Tried talking to Oliver. He’d listen, then carry on as if he lived alone.
Then, I got a promotion. A big one. Months of overtime, stress, proving myself to management—finally paying off. I came home glowing… and kept quiet. I just couldn’t tell him.
I imagined him and his mum celebrating—buying nonsense, jetting off somewhere, leaving us broke again. No. I stayed silent. This money was for the house, a car, a proper holiday. Something real.
I bought a new laptop—my old one barely worked. Told Oliver it was from work. Covered his dentist bill—lied, said insurance handled it. All for peace. For *us.*
It worked until my tipsy boss let slip at the office party:
*“Keep this up, and we’ll promote you again! You’ve been in management for half a year already…”*
Oliver froze.
*“What management? What *another* promotion?”* he asked outside.
I knew the jig was up. Admitted the promotion.
*“And the pay?”* His voice was icy.
*“No raise yet,”* I lied again.
At home, he pressed further. *“Why hide it? Ashamed of *how* you got the role?”*
I snapped. Told him everything—the money, the exhaustion, his mother, his spending. How terrified I was of the future. How I just wanted stability.
He listened silently, then walked out. An hour later, he returned with a bag.
*“I’m staying with Mum. Need to think.”*
Three days of silence. No call, no text. His mum rang instead—shrieking accusations. I hung up. I won’t listen to her anymore. Her voice is the root of all this.
I won’t text Oliver. Won’t call. Yes, it hurts. But it’d hurt more to repeat the same mistakes. If he wants to come back, he can apologise first. For the lies, the humiliation, for betraying me when all I wanted was to save us.
Let him wait. I’ve nothing to apologise for.
