I’ve been married for four years, and all this time, I’ve been the one supporting my husband.
I’m 32, and for four years, I’ve been shackled to a man who has become nothing but dead weight. My name is Eleanor, and I live in Manchester, scraping together every penny to keep us afloat. My husband, Oliver, is eight years my senior, and I’m exhausted from swallowing my frustration at his selfishness. Today, I finally snapped—I asked him for money for the first time. Instead of support, I got a torrent of blame and threats to walk out. My life’s become a never-ending melodrama, and I don’t know how much longer I can bear it.
Four years of marriage, and not once have I felt loved or protected. Oliver was married before, with a daughter from that failed union. When his first family fell apart, he moved back in with his parents, and while we were dating, he spun tales of crashing at a mate’s place. Later, I uncovered the lie, but I turned a blind eye, foolishly believing love would mend everything. Oliver works as a sales manager for a big firm, and his job is nothing but stress. He lashes out, shouting matches become routine, and I’m his emotional punching bag. Never a kind word, never a moment’s care—just his temper, chipping away at me.
When life has knocked me down, when I’ve desperately needed him, Oliver’s answer has always been the same: packing a bag and fleeing to his mother’s. Once, the loneliness got the better of me—I begged him to come back after a week apart. We live in my flat, bought long before he came into the picture, and I pay every bill, every grocery run. Not once has he shown me his pay. He claims he’s saving for our “dream”—some cottage in the Lake District, where we’ll supposedly live happily ever after. But day by day, that dream feels more like smoke. His promises are hollow, and I’m sick of fairy tales.
Last winter, the heating bills soared. Mustering all my courage, I asked Oliver to chip in. He promised he would—then a month passed, and nothing. My patience snapped. I can’t keep bankrolling a grown man content to live off me. What happens if we have children? Will they have to work just to feed their own father? It’s madness! At the month’s end, I cornered him—would he pay his share or not? Instead of an answer, he erupted, calling me ungrateful, then started chucking clothes into a suitcase, threatening to leave.
I don’t understand why he does this. What did I ever do to deserve this? My heart’s splintering under the weight of pain and confusion. I can’t keep enduring this injustice, but every time he leaves, then slinks back, it breaks me a little more. Four years I’ve carried this burden alone—but now, I’m at my limit. How much longer can I hold myself together before my life crumbles under his indifference?
