It feels like ages ago now, looking back on the life I once shared with my husband. We first crossed paths at Oxford, both of us young and hopeful about the future. I didnt meet any other suitors, nor did I want to; I chose Thomas and remained true to him. I suppose you could call me old-fashioned, one of those relics who believed in loving just one man, never so much as casting a glance elsewhere.
We married in our third year, still so naïve and unaware. I cant say whether our love was unshakeable at the start, but it must have been strong enoughafter all, we lived side by side for so many years. Our classmates looked up to us, set us up as paragon sweethearts, though we werent the only pair to couple off. Why us? Most likely because we stuck together through thick and thin, weathering all the bumps marriage threw our way.
Our fourth year brought parenthood. We didnt let go of our studies, determined to finish our degrees. Some of the tutors took pity and lent a hand, and we were never cheeky or demanding. Through perseverance and resilience, we graduated, received our degrees, and celebrated under the dreaming spires with friends and family. Thomas did his partevery meal, every washing-up, he pitched in.
I couldnt imagine sharing my life with anyone else. Thomas was my ideal, my soulmate. We complemented each other perfectly, barely ever falling out. It was such domestic blisssurely, our family was the sort children should be born into. So, it made perfect sense two years later for us to try for a daughter.
Why not, after all? I had a devoted husband and a lively, independent son. A daughter would complete the picture.
To all appearances, I was the happiest woman in all of England. Thomas loved me, always ready to lend a hand, whether playing with the children after a long day or giving me space for myself. There were no signs of trouble on the horizonuntil, out of the blue, Thomas began to grow distant.
He started working later and nitpicking, his temper short and nerves frayed. One day when I asked how he was feeling, he shot back a spiteful answer: Your job is to cook stew, wipe the childrens noses, andto please me at night.
Faced with this, I lost any spark for the bedroom or the kitchen. I hoped Thomas would recognise his behaviour and return to his old self, but things only got worse. Soon enough, he took to the bottle and vanished through the night, returning not as the loving father but as a tyrant.
One night he burst in and shouted, Ive had enough of screaming children and your worn-out pyjamas. Ive never been proud of you; you never put on a bit of lippy or made yourself look nice for me. I dont want to be seen out with youyou dont care for yourself. All you want is money and no one even asks what I want!
I rang my mother-in-law, but she only leapt to her sons defence, begging me not to seek a separation. But Id had enoughI gathered our things, took the children, and moved into a small rented flat. A friend helped me find a place for my daughter at the local nursery, and I picked up extra work cleaning to make ends meet. Life was hard, but at least there were no fists flying in our direction anymore.
It was at the divorce hearing that I learned the truth: Thomas was mentally ill. His parents had concealed it, pushing our marriage because I was the perfect, quiet, compliant match for their troubled son. My mother-in-law had even taken him to doctors in Germany, but there was no improvement; medication let him pass as normal for a time. I feel for him, I truly do, but I cannot share a home with a man so unwell. My only hope is that our children have not inherited his illness.
