My mum never cheated.
There was never a mysterious third person lurking in their marriage.
But she was difficult to live with, to put it gently.
She complained about absolutely everything, as if the universe existed for the sole purpose of disappointing her.
Nothing ever measured up to her standards.
If Dad came home knackered after a long shift, shed tell him off for not helping enough.
If he did chip in, shed correct him: wrong way, wrong cloth, wrong everything.
If he brought home groceries, shed sigh and point out it wasnt what she wanted.
If he remained faithful, shed mutter about him not behaving like a proper man. The dinner table was a minefield of silent tension, and doors frequently received rather dramatic slams.
Dad really tried to stick it out.
I watched him switch jobs to earn more pounds, cut back on meeting mates at the pub, rush straight home after work.
But Mum always found something else to pick at.
Shed scrutinise his shirts, interrogate him about who hed spoken to, what time hed left, and why he was five minutes late.
No one threw plates or screamed, but the atmosphere felt like living inside a pressure cooker.
You had to tiptoe everywhere, hoping not to set off another eruption.
The night Dad left wasnt about another woman.
It followed a particularly prolonged disagreement.
I was in my room when I heard him say, I cant do this anymore.
Im exhausted from feeling like Ill never be enough. Mum retorted that leaving made him a coward.
He didn’t shout back; he simply packed his things and walked out.
I ran to the window and watched him go, his back straight, pace slow, never looking back.
Afterwards, Mum spread her version far and wide: hed abandoned her, left her alone, failed as a husband.
I believed her.
For years, I simmered with anger at Dad.
I rarely saw him, and was frosty when I did.
He never said a bad word about Mum.
No excuses.
He just told me he loved me and respected my feelings.
Over time, I started noticing Mum used the same tactics with me.
Nothing I did was ever good enough.
If I studied, shed tutcould do better.
If I worked, it wasnt the right kind of job. If I relaxed, clearly lazy.
Eventually, I realised something truly painful: Dad didnt leave because hed strayed, but because he was emotionally wrung out.
Recently, I confronted him, chin trembling, and asked why he left.
He said, Because I was losing myself.
I started believing I really was useless. I cried buckets that day, because I realised Id judged him without knowing the whole story.
Now, my parents are still separated.
Mum remains exactly the samediscontented, sour, at odds with everyone.
Dad lives alone, peaceful, drama-free.
As for me, I carry a peculiar mix of guilt and relief.
Guilt for not understanding him sooner.
Relief that I finally know Im not all those awful things Mum says I am.
