**Diary Entry**
I married a divorced man, and now I’m considering divorce myself: his daughter is planning to move into our one-bedroom flat.
When I married him a little over two years ago, I had no doubts or reservations. I wasn’t afraid of his past—if anything, I thought it meant he valued relationships and understood the meaning of family. Our marriage felt strong until one announcement turned everything upside down.
“Emily’s coming to stay with us soon. She’s starting university and will live here for a while. Could be a few months, could be years. We’ll see,” my husband announced casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I froze. The room spun. A one-bedroom flat. Just the two of us. And now—his grown daughter, moving in? I couldn’t fathom how he saw this as normal. Anger surged inside me.
“Why does she have to live here?” I asked bluntly. “Why not student halls? All students manage—it’s part of the experience! I shared a room with two other girls, studied hard, and graduated with honours. Why is she any different?”
But my words seemed to wound him. His face flushed, his voice grew louder, sharper.
“Do you even realise she’s *my daughter*? My *only* child? I’ve missed her for years. How can she live in some cramped dorm when I’m right here, and my door is open to her?”
Then came the ultimatum. He’d already made up his mind; my opinion didn’t matter. In that moment, I felt my entire life—every effort, every sacrifice for this marriage—swept aside like rubbish. I was nobody. My voice meant nothing. Even in my own home, I was just a lodger, not his wife.
Now, Emily’s a sweet girl. Polite, quiet, bright. I’ve never had a bad word to say about her. But how does this work—three adults crammed into a space barely big enough for two? Where will she sleep? Study? What happens to our quiet evenings, our intimacy, when I’m no longer his wife but just another body in the flat?
I snapped. “She’s not living here,” I said before slamming the door behind me. I wandered the streets for hours, crying until my throat hurt. It wasn’t even about Emily. It was about me. About him making life-changing decisions without me. About realising I’m just an afterthought in his life.
Now, I don’t know what to do. One thought won’t leave me: why stay with someone who doesn’t listen? Why sacrifice my comfort for a man who’ll always say, “I don’t care what you think”?
I know this is just the start. There’ll be more choices—me or her. And we all know who he’ll pick. If I already feel like an outsider in my own home, what’s next?
Sometimes the hardest choice is leaving someone you love. But staying where you’re not wanted—that’s worse.
