My husband was supporting his ex-wife with our moneyand I finally gave him an ultimatum.
I knew about his ex from the very start. He never hid the fact that hed been married before, that he had a daughter, and paid child support. I thought it was the right thing to dohonourable. I respected him for his sense of duty.
But gradually, I began to realise something far more troubling: what I saw as responsibility was actually a deep, exhausting, persistent guilt. A guilt that hovered over him like an invisible mistand someone had learned how to use it to their advantage.
The child support always went out on time, and the amounts were more than fair. But, beyond that, there seemed to be an enormous realm of extra expenses.
There was always a need for something. A new laptop for schoolthe old one was slow, and all the other children had better models. My husband would sigh and then hed buy it.
An English summer campessential, apparently, for her to keep up with her classmates. Again, my husband agreed, even though it cost us what we might have spent on a holiday.
Presents for Christmas, for her birthday, for Mothering Sunday, or just becausethey all had to be the latest, the best, the shiniest. Because a dad ought to be good.
His ex-wife knew exactly how to talk to him. Shed ring up and say, in a slightly pained voice, Shell be so upset you do understand? I just cant manage this alone.
And he did understand.
He understood it so keenly that he stopped seeing the reality in front of himthe reality where he lived with me, where we had plans, dreams, and a future together.
But the money for our future was trickling away, drop by drop, to prop up a chapter in his past that refused to close.
I tried to talk to him.
Dont you think this is too much now? She has everything. Meanwhile, we havent been able to buy a washing machine for two months. Wake up
Hed look at me, guilty, and answer, Shes a child I cant deny her. They say these are difficult years. She needs my support.
And what about my self-respect? Our life? I began to ask, more sharply.
Hed look confused. What are you jealous? Of a child?
It wasnt jealousy.
It was about fairness.
We were living like we were on permanent emergency footingalways financing someones urgent need that never ended.
Our washing machine was on its last legs. It rattled, bounced, stopped mid-cycle. I dreamed of a normal, quiet machine. Id put aside a bit from my salary, found a good deal at John Lewis. We picked a day to buy it.
I could already imagine doing laundry without wondering if it would break down again.
On the morning of that day, my husband was oddly quiet. He wandered around our flat, pretending to look for something on the floor.
Just as I grabbed my handbag and was ready to leave, he said, I… took the money… for the washing machine.
My fingers went cold.
You took it? Where?
For my daughter. It was urgent dental treatment. My ex called late, in a panic. Said the girl was in agony, that she needed a private dentist immediately, and it would cost a fortune I couldnt say no
I leaned against the doorframe.
And? Is she all right now?
Yes, yes! he brightened, as if the whole ordeal was behind us. It went really well, apparently. Everythings fine.
I looked at him for a few seconds then said quietly, Call her right now.
What? Why?
Call her. Ask how the child is and which tooth it was.
He frowned but dialled. They spoke briefly, and as he listened, I watched his face changefrom confidence to discomfort.
He hung up.
Well its fine. The pains gone.
Which tooth? I repeated.
It doesnt matter
WHICH TOOTH? My voice was so harsh it almost sounded like someone elses.
He sighed. Turns out there was no pain. It was a planned thing. Whitening. Its allowed at her age. Shed been waiting all year
I just turned and sat down at the kitchen table.
The money for our simple life had gone on teeth whitening because someone decided it was necessary.
And the worst part?
He hadnt even questioned it. Hadnt checked. Just handed it over, without a thoughtbecause guilt is a terrible adviser, but a wonderful lever for manipulation.
After that, a chill settled over our home.
I spoke to him rarely. He tried to make up with small gestures, but it was like plastering a gaping wound with a sticker.
I finally understoodmy fight wasn’t with his ex-wife.
I was fighting a ghost inside him.
The ghost of a failed marriage. The restless feeling that he hadn’t done enough. That he needed to make amends.
And that ghost was ravenous.
It demanded moremoney, time, nerves, humiliation.
The turning point was at his daughters birthday party.
I put aside my tension and bought a lovely, well-crafted but modest bookthe sort shed mentioned once in passing.
The grand gifts came from mummy and daddy: the newest smartphone, the kind only the most privileged children at her school had.
His ex-wife looked ready for the pages of Vogue. She received the guests with the air of a hostess. Her smile was sweet but sharp.
When it was time for presents and his daughter took my book, she spoke loudly, smiling across the room:
There you go, darling only someone who truly loves you gives you what you dream of, and she pointed to the shiny smartphone. And that with a dismissive nod to the book thats just from some aunt. You know, just for the sake of it.
The room froze.
All eyes turned to me.
Then to my husband.
And he said nothing.
Didnt defend me. Didnt correct her. Nothing at all.
He stared at his plate, at the floorshrunk into himself, as if willing himself to vanish.
His silence was louder than a slap.
It was agreement.
I bore the rest of the party with a stony face. I smiled, nodded but inside, it was already over.
Not a crisis. Not an ending.
Just the end.
When we got home, I didnt cause a scene. Those are for people still fighting.
I went to the bedroom, took down his old dusty suitcase from the wardrobethe one hed carried when he first moved in with me.
And I started folding his clothes into it.
Slowly. Methodically. Without trembling.
Shirts. Trousers. Socks. All neatly arranged.
He heard the noise, came in, and when he saw the suitcase he froze.
What are you doing?
Im helping you pack, I said calmly.
What? Where am I going? Whats this nonsense? Is it because of today? Shes always like that
Its not about her, I interrupted. Its about you.
I placed the last shirt in the case.
You live in the past. Every pound you spend, every thought, every silenceits all there. But I live in the present. In the present, where theres no money for a washing machine because its gone on teeth whitening for someone’s whim. In the present, where Im humiliated in public and my husband stares at the floor.
I zipped up the suitcase. Stood it upright.
And looked him in the eyes.
Go. Go to her. Help her with everythingher teeth, her lessons, her endless dramas and manipulations. Work off your guilt, if thats what you need. But do it there, not here. Make space.
What space?
The space for a husband in my life. Its filled already. Filled with the ghost of another woman. And Im tired of sharing my bed, my money, and my future with it.
I carried the suitcase down the stairs to the front door and left it there.
He picked it up and left.
I didnt glance at the door.
For the first time in ages, I felt the air was truly mine.
That my home was my own.
That my soul finally had room for itself.
Two months later, our marriage was formally ended.
