My name is Andrew, and I’m 47 years old. My wife and I have spent almost two decades together. It seemed like enough time to become family, to learn to listen, understand, and support each other. But it appears I was mistaken. I can no longer pretend everything is fine. I can’t endure it any longer. I’m exhausted—to the point of chest pain, restless dreams, and the lump in my throat whenever I walk through the door.
We met in our youth and married when I was twenty-seven and she was twenty-four. Our life together unfolded like many others: a mortgage, first arguments, shared dreams, and joint responsibilities. Our son was born three years later. We stayed together for his sake. Now he’s nineteen and attending university, unaware of the cost of maintaining this “happy” marriage.
At first, everything seemed normal. She often said she didn’t want children because my earnings were too low. Back then, I was working in a workshop assembling furniture. Money was tight, but I didn’t see it as a tragedy. Until I realized my wife was ashamed of me. She watched TV shows that taught women to be strong, independent, demanding. That was enough for her to start acting like a judge in our own home.
She criticized everything: my speech, the way I stood, even how I cycled. Especially in front of others. Previously, we rarely interacted with neighbors as we have few relatives, so I didn’t realize how toxic her words could be. But when new families moved onto our street, everything changed. We began socializing with the neighbors, visiting each other. There, among strangers, I observed how other couples spoke to one another—with respect, warmth, without shouting.
But my wife… she raises her voice at me in public, accuses, humiliates. She claims I’m a “worthless husband,” that she has to “carry everything on her own shoulders,” that she alone ensured our child’s education. Yet, without my payments on the mortgage, without me buying this house, we would have had nothing. In five years, I cleared the debt. My salary? £5,000 a month. I always brought everything home. Her income was £800, and I don’t even know where it went. I never asked, because I trusted her.
But trust doesn’t die from betrayal—it dies from continuous disappointment. I no longer feel closeness or warmth with her. We sleep in the same bed, yet miles of silence lie between us. I don’t want to touch her, talk to her, or even return home after work. She irritates me to my core. Her voice, tone, even her glance—everything grates on my nerves like sandpaper.
Every argument we have is a battlefield. I’m always at fault. She’s always right. Her phrase, “You’ve ruined my entire life,” has become a mantra, repeated over and over as though I truly destroyed her fate. Then why is she still with me? Why do we continue this charade?
Sometimes, I look at the women around me—my colleagues, our neighbors. They know how to smile, speak gently, laugh kindly. They don’t yell at men in front of others. I’m not looking for another woman—I’m just comparing. Comparing and wondering why my wife changed. Or was she always this way, and I just never noticed?
There are times I think I don’t love her anymore. And sometimes I feel I still do. Deep down. For who she used to be. For our youth. For our son. But I can’t live in constant tension, as if sitting on a powder keg, any longer. I’m not made of iron. I can’t withstand her perpetual dissatisfaction.
I dream of a divorce. I think about it every day. But I’m scared. Scared of my son’s reaction, of being judged, of ending up alone. Yet, truthfully, I’m already alone. There’s just a person beside me who became a stranger long ago. And there’s nothing more frightening than being lonely together.
