**Diary Entry**
I made the choice not to tell my husband about my pay raise, and it wasn’t an easy decision. But I did it deliberately—not out of spite or greed, just exhaustion. I was tired of the constant ups and downs: one week splurging, the next three scraping by on cheap meals. Tired of the recklessness. The irresponsibility my husband, Oliver, seemed to have inherited from his mother.
We met at a friend’s party. His charm won me over—the effortless way he carried himself, his ability to shrug off problems. I’m the opposite: meticulous, responsible, worrying over every penny. At the time, I thought, *Maybe this is what I need—someone carefree to balance me out.*
But marriage changed everything. His “carefree” nature was just immaturity. Payday meant celebration: fancy dinners, shopping sprees, gifts for his mum, his mates—anyone at all. By the next day, we’d be skint. Then came weeks of pasta and empty promises that *”things would get better.”*
Oliver earns well enough, but money slips through his fingers—especially when his mum gets involved. She’s dramatic, demanding, just as irresponsible. The moment her pension was spent, she’d call him: *”I’m lonely, I’m miserable, I’m tired of being broke.”* And Oliver, ever the dutiful son, would rush to help.
*”She’s my mum. I can’t abandon her,”* he’d say.
*”Then what about us?”* I’d ask.
*”We’ll manage. Somehow,”* he’d reply with that easy smile.
Meanwhile, our home was crumbling—literally. Peeling wallpaper, leaky pipes, a fridge that rattled like a tractor. I patched things up, seething in silence. I tried talking to Oliver, but he listened like a man who lived alone.
Then came my promotion. A proper one. Months of overtime, stress, proving myself—finally worth it. I came home glowing… and didn’t say a word. I couldn’t. I pictured him and his mum celebrating: shopping sprees, fancy trips, leaving us strapped again. No. This money was for *real* things—renovations, a car, a proper holiday.
I bought a new laptop—my old one was falling apart—and lied, saying work provided it. Paid for his dentist appointment, claimed it was covered by insurance. All for peace. For our future.
Then came the office party. My tipsy boss let it slip in front of Oliver: *”At this rate, we’ll promote you again! You’ve been in management for half a year already!”*
Oliver froze. *”Management? What promotion?”* he asked the moment we stepped outside. I knew it was over. I admitted the truth—skirting around the raise at first.
*”And the pay?”* His eyes were icy.
*”No change yet,”* I lied again.
But at home, he pressed harder. *”Why keep it secret? Ashamed of how you got the job?”*
It felt like a slap. I snapped then. Told him everything—about the money, the exhaustion, his mother, his reckless spending, my fear for our future. I just wanted stability.
He listened in silence. Then he left—just walked into the bedroom, packed a bag, and said, *”I’m staying at Mum’s. Need to think.”*
Three days of silence. No calls, no texts. But his mum rang—screaming, blaming, accusing. I hung up. I won’t hear her out anymore. Her voice is the root of all this.
I won’t reach out to Oliver. It hurts, but not as much as repeating the same mistakes. If he wants to come back, he can apologise first—for the lies, the insults, the betrayal when all I wanted was to protect us.
Let him wait. I’ve nothing to apologise for.
