Three Weeks of Marriage and Thoughts of Divorce
I’ve been married just three weeks, and already, I can’t stand the sight of it. I want a divorce because every day with Edward feels like a cruel joke, tightening around my chest. My mum, Elizabeth Anne, keeps saying, “Emily, don’t throw it all away so fast. Give it time—things will settle.” But how can I wait when I already know I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life? I loved Ed, believed we’d be happy, and now I sit here wondering: how did I get it so wrong?
When we were dating, everything was like a dream. He was attentive—flowers, sweet messages, promises of the family I’d always wanted. I saw a future with him: children, holidays, laughing at stupid jokes. Our wedding was three weeks ago—beautiful, in a white gown, dancing till dawn, toasts to eternal love. I looked at Ed that day and thought: *This is my happiness.* But the moment we moved in together, the dream curdled into a nightmare.
The cracks showed the day after the honeymoon. We’d returned from a short trip, and instead of helping unpack, Ed flopped onto the sofa with his phone. “Em, I’m knackered. Sort it yourself,” he mumbled. I swallowed it, thinking he must be exhausted. But then it became routine. He leaves dishes piled up, socks strewn everywhere, and when I ask for help, he shrugs: “You’re the wife. That’s your job.” *My job?* I work too, come home just as late, yet I’m the one cooking because he “doesn’t like takeaways.” I thought marriage was a partnership, not servitude.
It gets worse. Ed’s true colours emerged—petty, irritable. A mug left out, a request to take the bins out, even trying to talk about our future—when to save for a car, how to celebrate our anniversary—sets him off. “Em, not now. I’m swamped,” he snapped. Swamped doing what? Scrolling through reels? The man who vowed to love me forever now sighs if I exist too loudly.
The cruelest part is how he treats me. Last night, after work, I made dinner—tired, aching—and he wandered in, tasted the soup, and said, “Mum’s is better.” I nearly flung the ladle at him. *Not like Mum’s? Go back to her, then.* He didn’t even say thanks. Later, he added, “You could put more effort in. That dressing gown makes you look ancient.” That was it. Three weeks married, and he’s nitpicking my looks? I locked myself in the bedroom and cried till sunrise. Not from his words, but from the crushing realisation: this isn’t my Ed. This is a stranger I don’t want to know.
I rang Mum, spilled everything. Elizabeth Anne listened, then said, “Marriage takes work, love. You’ll adjust, he’ll adjust.” But adjust *to what*? He doesn’t apologise, help, or value me. I’m a maid, not a wife. Mum says I’m overreacting, that all couples go through this. But I don’t want to “go through” anything. I want respect, not demands.
This morning, I told Ed, “Keep this up, and I’ll file for divorce.” He laughed, like I’d told a joke. “Don’t be dramatic, Em. It’s fine.” *Fine?* For him, maybe. For me, it’s hell. I don’t recognise myself—where’s the bright, confident girl from the wedding? Now I just shrink, bending to please a man who doesn’t care.
Divorce feels inevitable. It’ll be messy—explaining to family, splitting belongings, starting over. People will whisper, “Three weeks? What kind of wife gives up so fast?” But I don’t care. I won’t stay with someone who makes me miserable. I wanted a family, not a life of thankless chores. If Ed won’t change, I’ll leave. Better alone than unloved.
Yet—some stubborn hope lingers. What if Mum’s right? What if this is just the “adjustment period”? I’m giving it a week. If nothing shifts, I’ll call a solicitor. Till then, I white-knuckle through each day, staring at our wedding photo and wondering: *Where’s the Ed who promised me happiness? How did I misread him so completely?* But one thing’s certain: I deserve better. I just—
