Id been married for what felt like ages; I met my husband, Oliver, back when we were at university in Leeds. I never dated anyone else; I picked him, and that was it. I suppose I was a relic, one of those proper old-fashioned sorts who sticks with one chap and doesnt cast a glance elsewhere.
We tied the knot in our third year, full of youth and green ideas. Was it love? I suppose it must have been, because we shared a home under the same leaky roof for all those years. Our classmates made us their model couple, though we werent the only pair about. Im not sure why, just that we always clung to one another, through rain and cold dinners and all those other mishaps.
It was in our fourth year that the first child arrived, a little boy. We didnt give up on our studies; some of the lecturers turned a blind eye and others nodded their approval as though wed done something clever. We managed to muddle through university, clinging to stubborn grit, and at the end we got our diplomas and made a song and dance about it. Oliver always took his share of washing up and lugging the shopping home.
I couldnt see myself with anyone but Oliver. He was my picture of a perfect husband: a true soulmate and rare argument. Our life looked peaceful, the sort a storybook child ought to enter, so after two more years, we decided to have a daughter.
Why not, I thought? I already had a doting husband and our bright, cheeky boy. A daughter would complete the portrait.
On the surface, anyone would believe I had the perfect life. Oliver loved me in his way, always lending a hand. Even when on night shifts, hed come home, play silly games with the little ones and give me an hour to read or stare dreamily into the rain. Nothing seemed amissuntil all at once I caught a chill in the air between us.
He started returning late, becoming irritable and sharp. He picked at the smallest things. Once, when I asked How are you? he muttered that my only purpose was to boil the kettle, wipe the childrens noses, and keep my husband content at night.
That sort of talk sapped any hunger for the kitchen or our bedroom. I hoped Oliver would come to his senses, but instead he only grew meaner, glass in hand at night, not coming home till dawn. My kind, gentle husband had faded, and someone cruel and unrecognisable took his place.
One night, he burst in with a shout:
“Ive had enough of this noisy house and your ghastly old joggers. Ive never been proud of you. You never wear makeup or even try to look nice. I dont want to be seen out with youalways scruffy. All you care about is money. No one asks what I want!”
I called my mother-in-law, and she just asked me not to divorce him, pleading for her sons sake. That was the last straw. I packed our bags, gathered the children, and found us a little flat above a bakery. A friend helped get my daughter into nursery, and I found a job stacking shelves at the corner shop. It was tough making ends meet in pounds and pence, but at least we had quiet nights.
At the court hearing, everything turned inside out. It turned out Oliver was mentally unwell, and his family had kept it hush-hush. Theyd encouraged our marriage, they said, because I was gentle and would keep their troubled son steady. His mother had whisked him off to London for specialists, but nothing helped. He was supposed to be on medication all along. I do pity him, but I cant remain under the same roof as an unstable man.
The main thing I hope for now is that our children grow up free of his shadow, that their dreams remain unmarred by stormy clouds.
