I divorced my husband in May. He walked out, slamming the door, for someone “younger and prettier.” But that’s just the backdrop.
My husband was ordinary. Before marriage—attentive, tender, full of romantic gestures. Then the trial version ended, and the full licence turned out to be disappointingly limited.
Nothing criminal, of course. Just one persistent thorn—he started counting pennies, always with a skewed logic.
Yes, his salary was about ten grand higher than mine (fluctuating slightly over time). To him, that meant he was the “breadwinner,” while I handled everything else. His spending formula was something else, though.
If it was “for the house,” it counted as spending on me.
“For the house” meant the car with monthly loan payments of £300—the same car that took me to Tesco once a week for groceries.
“For the house” (read: for me) included blankets, towels, pots, and the bathroom renovation.
“For me” covered children’s clothes, toys, nursery fees, and paediatric bills.
“For me” meant utility bills—since I handled them. If the money left *my* hands, it was *my* spending.
Everything was “for the wife.” So “for the husband,” as it turned out, barely a penny left the family budget. In his eyes—and his family’s—I was a “money pit.” Earning less, yet spending nearly his entire salary. He loved, at month’s end, to smirk and ask how much was left. Of course, there was never anything.
The final year, his favourite line became: “We need to rein in your spending. You want too much.” So he did.
Early on, we agreed to keep £200 each for personal use, pooling the rest. Then he decided he’d also pocket the difference in our salaries—so he kept £400, while my £200 stayed the same. Later, he shaved another £200 off his contribution, muttering, “Your shampoo costs £5, while I use soap.”
By the end, I had £800 a month to cover groceries, the car loan, bills, and our child’s needs. His contribution? £400. Mine? £600. Still, it was never enough.
I stopped setting aside anything for myself, pouring my full £800 into the household—relying on bonuses for pocket change. All while enduring lectures on how he “supported” me and planned to “cut back my spending” further. Because, apparently, I was greedy.
“Why didn’t you leave sooner?” you might ask.
I was foolish. I listened—to him, his mother, mine. Believed his narrative—that he bankrolled my extravagance while I pinched pennies. Wore threadbare clothes. Swallowed painkillers and avoided the dentist because the NHS wait was endless, and I couldn’t justify private care.
Meanwhile, he blew £500 monthly on whims—boasting about his “budgeting skills.” A new phone. Designer trainers. A £1,000 subwoofer for the car.
Then, divorce. Off fluttered the great “provider” to someone who didn’t dress in charity-shop finds, who powdered her nose and gym-toned instead of stitching mittens from old jumpers and stretching a tight budget into meals.
I cried, of course. How would I manage alone with a child? Panicked, I braced for ruin.
Then payday came. But—oddly—money remained. A *lot* of it. Before, I’d have been deep into my overdraft by now.
Next, the mid-month payment. More leftover.
I sat down. Grabbed paper. Columns: “Income” / “Outgoings.”
Gone was his salary—or rather, the paltry £400 he’d tossed into the pot (keeping £500 for himself). Gone, too, the £300 car loan.
Groceries? Less than half what I’d spent before. No complaints that chicken “wasn’t proper meat,” no demands for pricier cuts, richer stews, “decent cheese for a working man’s sandwich” (yes, I bought him the good stuff; my son and I made do). No beer. No sweets vanishing by the bucketload.
No growled, “I don’t want your pies—order pizza.”
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!! Oh my God. I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!!
I tossed my rags—the ones I’d been ashamed to wear at nursery pickup—and bought affordable, *new* clothes. Visited a hairdresser for the first time in five years.
Post-divorce, child support trickled in—£200 total, covering nursery and football club. Before Christmas, he magnanimously added £100: “Buy the kid proper oranges and a gift—don’t you dare spend it on yourself.”
“On myself.” Hilarious. Drunk on financial breathing room, I’d already bought my son everything he’d longed for—a beginner’s telescope, a Lego set, smartwatches for kids. Used my bonus to finally redecorate his room. For Christmas? A giant cage with two guinea pigs and all the trimmings.
In December, I accepted a promotion—unthinkable before. More hours? But who’d keep the house running? Turns out—I do. No need to cook vats of borscht or hand-roll dumplings (“I’m not paying for shop-bought rubbish!”).
Best of all? No more jibes. No “gold-digger” taunts. No frayed nerves (well, except his mother’s “visits,” where she photographs the fridge, our clothes, the flat).
Now I’m sprawled on the sofa, nibbling pineapple, watching my son meticulously tend his guinea pigs (“Mum, did I put this right?” “Is this enough cabbage?”). And I’m happy. Without him. Without his money.
So what if selling Gran’s cottage covered his share of the flat? Freedom and peace? Worth every brick.
