I decided not to tell my husband I’d started earning more. He got offended, packed his things, and went to stay with his mother.
Keeping the pay rise from my husband wasn’t easy, but I did it deliberately—not out of spite or greed, just sheer exhaustion. Exhaustion from the constant rollercoaster—one week of splurging, the next three scraping by on beans on toast. From the irresponsibility. From the carefree attitude my husband, Oliver, had inherited from his mother.
We met at a friend’s party. Oliver charmed me with his easygoing nature, that effortless charisma, his talent for brushing off problems. I was his opposite—always planning, fretting over every penny. Back then, I thought, *Maybe this is what I need—someone lighthearted to balance me out*.
But after the wedding, reality set in. His “lightheartedness” turned out to be pure immaturity. Payday was a carnival—posh dinners, impulse buys, gifts for his mum, his mates, anyone within arm’s reach. The next day? Skint. The next month? Instant noodles and vague reassurances that “things will sort themselves out.”
Oliver earned decently, but money slipped through his fingers—especially when his mum got involved. A drama queen through and through, the second her pension ran dry, she’d ring him: *I’m lonely, I’m miserable, I’m sick of being poor*. And Oliver, of course, raced to her rescue.
—She’s my mum. I can’t just abandon her, he’d say.
—And what about us? I’d ask.
—We’ll manage. Somehow, he’d grin.
Meanwhile, our house was falling apart. Literally. Peeling wallpaper, a leaky tap, a fridge that rattled like a washing machine stuffed with bricks. I patched things up, bit my tongue, seethed in silence. Tried talking to Oliver—he’d listen, then carry on as if he lived alone.
Then came my promotion—a big one. Months of overtime, stress, proving to my boss I could handle the project. I came home buzzing, eyes shining… and said nothing. I just couldn’t.
I imagined him and his mum celebrating—more gadgets we didn’t need, another impromptu holiday, leaving us skint again. No. This money was for the house, the car, a proper holiday. Something real.
I bought a new laptop—my old one was held together with hope and sticky tape. Told Oliver work had issued it. Covered his dentist bill—lied it was insurance. All for peace. For our future. For us.
It worked… until the office party, where my tipsy boss blurted out in front of Oliver:
—At this rate, we’ll have to promote you again! You’ve been managing six months already…
Oliver froze.
—*Managing*? Another promotion? he asked once we left.
I knew the jig was up. Admitted I’d been promoted.
—And the pay? His voice was icy.
—Same for now, I lied again.
At home, he pushed further.
—Why hide it? Ashamed of *how* you got the job?
It felt like a slap. Hurt twisted into rage. I snapped. Told him everything—the money, the exhaustion, his mum, how he burned through every pound, how terrified I was of tomorrow. How I just wanted stability.
He listened silently, then vanished into the bedroom. An hour later, he came out with a bag.
—I’m staying at Mum’s. Need to think.
Three days of silence. No calls, no texts. Just his mum ringing, screeching accusations. I hung up. I’m done listening to her. Her voice is the root of all this.
I won’t message Oliver. Won’t call. Yes, it hurts. But it’d hurt more to repeat the same mistake. If he wants to come back, he can apologise first—for the lies, the jabs, the betrayal when all I wanted was to save us.
Let him wait. *I’ve* got nothing to apologise for.
