My husband vanishes between work and his mother, while I drown in solitude…
For over a year now, I’ve lived as though I were alone. No, officially, I’m married—I have a child, a home—but my husband… he’s simply never here. He’s either at work until late or disappearing into his mother’s flat. And the worst part? He doesn’t see anything wrong with it. No sympathy, no hint of understanding. To him, everything’s fine: he works, he helps his mother, and our home is just a place to sleep.
Friends tell me, “Hang on, once your maternity leave ends, things will get better.” But I know it isn’t about the leave. I’ve simply stopped turning a blind eye. The scales have fallen. Before, I made excuses for him—claimed he was tired, that his job was demanding—but now… now I see how my family is crumbling, slow but certain.
We live in Manchester, in an ordinary two-bedroom flat. I’m on leave with our little boy. My husband, James, works for a major logistics firm—recently got a promotion. Since then, it’s as if he’s vanished from our lives. He comes home past midnight, leaves before dawn, and when he isn’t working, he’s at his “second home”—his mother’s place.
Margaret, his mother, has made a habit of summoning him under the guise of little emergencies ever since I gave birth: a socket needs fixing, a pipe replaced, a door that won’t close. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were occasional, but it’s become routine. Then, a few months ago, she suddenly decided to renovate—just as James was swamped with his new responsibilities. And, of course, the money for it comes from him. Us? We scrape by on what’s left. Our child benefit? A joke—it barely covers half the nappies.
When James had holiday time, he suggested they do the work then. She refused: “Oh, it’s fine as it is, don’t fuss.” But now? It’s urgent. The wallpaper’s peeling, the ceiling’s uneven… So now, every weekend, he’s there. Each time: “I’ll just pop in for an hour.” He stumbles back well past midnight. I don’t even know who the real woman in his life is anymore—me or his mum.
Margaret asks about our son… through James. Not once has she checked in with me, offered to help, or come by to let me rest while she looks after the baby. But she’s quick to command: “Jimmy, don’t forget to stop by—the cabinet needs sorting, then the tiles after.”
I’m exhausted. Exhausted from being a wife yet living like a widow. Exhausted watching our son reach for his father, only for James to walk straight past, shower in silence, eat, and collapse into bed. I’ve tried talking to him, explaining that we need a family—not this endless chase for his mother’s approval. He just brushes me off:
“I’m not out drinking, am I? I leave money on the table—what more do you want? Should I quit my job?”
Yes, he brings in money. But money I could earn myself. What I can’t give our son is a father who’s always “busy” at Gran’s. I don’t need a cash machine. I need a husband. A partner. A friend. A dad for my boy.
So here I sit, in this flat, surrounded by toys and nappies and endless weariness. Feeling abandoned. Forgotten. Alone. Even with a wedding ring on my finger.
