**Diary Entry**
I made the choice not to tell my husband about my pay rise. He took offence, packed his things, and left to stay with his mum.
Hiding my increased earnings wasn’t easy for me, but I did it deliberately—not out of malice or selfishness, but exhaustion. I was tired of the endless cycle—one week of lavish spending, followed by three scraping by on baked beans on toast. Tired of the irresponsibility. The carefree attitude my husband, James, inherited from his mother.
James and I met at a mate’s party. He won me over with his easy charm, his charisma, the way he shrugged off problems like they were nothing. I’m the opposite—always in control, worrying over every pound, carrying the weight of everything. Back then, I thought, *Maybe this is exactly what I need—someone lighthearted to balance me out.*
After the wedding, reality set in. His “lightheartedness” was just childishness. Payday meant celebration—fancy dinners, reckless spending, gifts for his mum, his mates, anyone but us. By the next day, he’d be skint. For a month, it’d be beans on toast and empty promises that *”things will get better.”*
James earns well enough, but money slips through his fingers—especially when his mum gets involved. She’s dramatic, demanding, just as irresponsible. The moment she blew through her pension, she’d ring him: *”I’m lonely, I’m miserable, I’m sick of pinching pennies.”* And James, dutiful son that he is, would come running.
*”She’s my mum. I can’t just abandon her,”* he’d say.
*”Then how are we supposed to live?”* I’d ask.
*”We’ll manage. Somehow,”* he’d reply with a smile.
Meanwhile, our home was falling apart—literally. The wallpaper peeled, the plumbing leaked, the fridge rattled like a tractor. I painted over cracks, patched things up, fumed in silence. Tried talking to James. He’d listen—then carry on like he lived alone.
Then came my promotion. A real victory—months of overtime, stress, proving to my boss I could lead a project. I came home beaming… and said nothing. I just couldn’t.
I imagined him and his mum celebrating—buying nonsense, jetting off on holiday, leaving us to scrape by again. No. I kept quiet. This money was for the house, for a car, for a proper holiday. For something real.
I bought a new laptop—my old one was on its last legs. Told James it was a work perk. Paid for his dentist visit—lied, said it was covered by insurance. All for peace. For our future. For *us*.
Everything was fine—until my tipsy manager spilled the truth at the Christmas do. *”With the way you’re going, we’ll have you in senior management soon! You’ve already been in the department half a year…”*
James froze.
*”What department? What ‘promotion’?”* he asked once we left.
I knew the jig was up. Admitted I’d been promoted.
*”And your pay?”* His voice was ice.
*”About the same,”* I lied again.
At home, he pressed further. *”Why didn’t you tell me? Ashamed of how you got the job?”*
It felt like a slap. I snapped. Told him everything—the money, the exhaustion, his mum, his reckless spending. How terrified I was of the future. How I just wanted stability.
He listened in silence. Then walked out. An hour later, he emerged with a bag. *”I’m staying with Mum. Need time to think.”*
Three days of silence. No call, no text. But his mum rang—screaming, accusing, demanding. I hung up. I’m done listening to her. Her voice is the root of all this.
I won’t message James. Won’t call. Yes, it hurts. But it’d hurt more to fall into the same trap. If he wants to come back, he can apologise first—for the lies, the humiliation, the betrayal when all I wanted was to save *us*.
Let him wait. I’ve got nothing to be sorry for.
**Lesson learned:** Love shouldn’t mean carrying someone else’s chaos. Sometimes, walking away is the only way to keep your own life from crumbling.
