For four years, I’ve been married, and all this time, I’ve carried my husband like a dead weight.
I’m 32, married to a man who’s become an anchor around my neck. I, Emily Blackwood, live in Manchester, dragging our shared life forward while he does nothing. My husband, Thomas Whitmore, is eight years older, and I’ve grown weary of biting my tongue as he shirks every responsibility. Today, I finally demanded money from him—only to be met with sulking and threats to leave. My life has spiralled into some wretched melodrama, and I don’t know how much longer I can bear it.
We’ve been married four years, yet never once have I felt cherished or safe. Thomas was married before me, with a daughter from that union. When his first family fell apart, he slunk back to his parents’ house, and while we were dating, he lied, telling me he stayed at a mate’s place. I found out the truth later but ignored it, foolishly believing love would smooth things over. Thomas works as a sales manager for a big firm—supposedly a high-pressure job. But rather than striving, he takes his stress out on me, snapping like a frayed wire, offering neither comfort nor kindness. His temper is a storm I’m tired of weathering.
In my darkest hours, when I needed him most, Thomas would simply pack a bag and flee to his mother’s. Once, I cracked after a week apart and begged him to return. We live in my flat, bought before we wed, and I shoulder every bill, every grocery run. He’s never shown me a penny of his earnings, claiming he’s saving for our “shared dream”—a cottage in the Lake District where we’ll supposedly live in bliss. But with each passing day, that dream feels like smoke. His promises are empty, and I’m exhausted from pretending otherwise.
Last winter, the heating bills soared, and gathering my courage, I asked Thomas to contribute. He swore he would—then a month slipped by, and still nothing. My patience wore thin. I refuse to bankroll a grown man who leeches off me. What if we had children? Would they have to work just to feed their own father? It’s madness! At month’s end, I confronted him outright: was he going to pay his share? Instead of answering, he lashed out—called me ungrateful, then stormed about, stuffing clothes into a suitcase, threatening to leave again.
I don’t understand why he does this. What did I do to deserve such cruelty? My heart splinters under the weight of confusion and hurt. I can’t endure this unfairness forever, yet every time he walks out—then slinks back—another piece of me cracks. Four years I’ve carried this burden alone, but now I’m teetering. How long until I snap under the crushing indifference of the man who swore to love me?
