Life Under a Tyrant’s Rule
When life pushed my husband and me into a corner, we had no choice but to move in with his father in a quiet village near Manchester. It was supposed to be temporary, but within months, I knew I couldn’t last another year under that roof. I felt like a servant in the house of a cruel master, and now—even if we have nothing to eat—I’ll never go back. His treatment of me shattered any hope of peaceful coexistence.
My husband’s parents had divorced years ago. His father, Nigel Whitmore, raised him, while his mother had long since remarried and was hardly part of their lives. Perhaps that’s why Nigel regarded women with contempt. When we first met, he struck me as a gruff old man—nothing more. Out of respect for him raising my husband alone, I tried to get along. It was useless.
We didn’t own a flat. We’d been renting a room in Manchester, saving for a place, but then I got pregnant, and everything fell apart. Money was tight, and the baby was due soon. Reluctantly, we asked to stay with Nigel. Within days, I regretted it—as if I’d known the nightmare awaiting me.
I’d never faced so much housework. Cleaning, cooking, ironing—it all landed on me like I wasn’t an expectant mother but a helpless maid. At eight months, every step hurt, my back ached, but rest wasn’t allowed. I worked part-time to save for maternity leave, only to return to endless chores at home.
“Think you’re some fine lady, do you?” Nigel would bark if I dared sit on the sofa. “Pregnancy isn’t an illness! No one’s running a mop for you!”
So I’d clench my teeth, grab the broom, dust, scrub windows, clean corners untouched for years. He had no mercy. He invented tasks just to break me, always when my husband was gone. I lingered outside to avoid his tirades, but it never worked.
“I come home from work, and where are you?” he’d yell if dinner wasn’t ready. “Floors filthy, crumbs underfoot—yet you’re gallivanting!”
His words cut deep. He belittled me at every chance, and I stayed silent, not wanting to burden my husband. Oliver was already working two jobs to support us. I hoped Nigel would soften, but his demands grew—soup too bland, dishes smudged, the bed not made right. Sometimes his complaints were so absurd I nearly laughed. I mopped twice a day, ironed his shirts like some unpaid servant.
“Why should I lift an iron when there’s a woman here?” he’d shout. “If my son married a lazy thing like you, he should divorce you! Lazing about all day!”
Living with Nigel made me understand why his wife fled after giving birth. Enduring him was beyond human strength. I admired her for lasting those few years—she was braver than I’d known. But one day, I reached my limit.
I was scrubbing a pan when Nigel stormed in, lecturing me—again—on how I did everything wrong. His scorn-filled voice tipped me over. I slammed the pan down, wiped my hands, and without a word, went to pack. Better to starve than let that tyrant crush my spirit—and my child’s future.
“Go wherever you like!” he spat, hurling curses after me.
Just then, Oliver came home. Seeing my state, he barely held back from confronting his father. I pulled him away, and by morning, we’d rented a tiny room. Oliver hasn’t spoken to Nigel since. His father sent bitter letters, accusing him of “choosing some woman over blood.” That was the end.
I still don’t know how such a man raised a kind, loving son. Maybe bitterness or jealousy twisted him, but I’ve no energy to find out. We’re free now—and some doors are better left closed forever.
*Some people mistake power for respect, but true strength lies in knowing when to walk away.*
