Three Weeks of Marriage and Already Eyeing the Exit
I’ve been married for three whole weeks, and already, I can’t stand it. I’m ready to file for divorce because every day with James feels like a punishment straight out of a sitcom—except no one’s laughing. My mum, Margaret, keeps saying, “Emily, don’t throw in the towel so fast! Give it time—it’ll sort itself out.” But how am I supposed to wait when I’m already convinced I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life? I loved James. I believed we’d be happy. Now, I’m sitting here wondering: how did I get it so wrong?
When we were dating, it was all fairy-tale romance—flowers, sweet texts, promises of building a family, travelling the world, laughing at terrible jokes. Our wedding three weeks ago was lovely: white dress, dancing till dawn, toasts about eternal love. I looked at James and thought, *This is it. This is my happiness.* But the moment we started living together, the fairy tale turned into a farce.
The first warning signs appeared the day after the honeymoon. Instead of helping me unpack, James flopped onto the sofa, phone in hand. “Em, I’m knackered—sort it out yourself,” he said. I let it slide, thinking he was just tired. But then it became the norm. He never washes up, leaves socks everywhere, and when I ask for help, he says, “You’re the wife—that’s your job.” *My job?* I work too—I get home just as late, and then I cook because he “can’t stand takeaway.” I thought marriage was teamwork, not a one-woman concierge service.
But wait, there’s more. James started showing a side of him I’d never seen—a grumpy, nitpicking stranger. He fumes if I leave a mug on the table, if I ask him to take out the bins, or if I dare bring up something important. The other day, I tried discussing our future—saving for a car, anniversary plans—and he cut me off: “Emily, don’t nag. I’ve got enough on my plate.” *What plate?* Scrolling through Twitter on the sofa? I look at him now and barely recognise the man who swore he’d love me forever.
The worst part? His attitude. Yesterday, after work, I made dinner—exhausted—and he waltzed in, took one bite, and said, “Mum’s bangers and mash are better.” I nearly chucked the spatula at him. *Not as good as Mum’s?* Off you pop to Mum’s, then! I’d put effort in, and he couldn’t even say thanks. Then, as a bonus, he added, “And maybe put a bit more effort in, eh? You’re starting to dress like my nan.” That was the last straw. Three weeks married, and he’s already critiquing my wardrobe? I locked myself in the bedroom and cried for hours—not because of his words, but because I realised: this isn’t my James. He’s a stranger, and I don’t want to live with him.
I rang Mum in tears. She listened and said, “Marriage takes work, love. You’ll settle in—he’ll adjust, you’ll adjust. Don’t rush into divorce.” But *adjust to what?* He doesn’t apologise, doesn’t help, doesn’t appreciate me. I feel like a live-in maid, not a wife. Mum says I’m being dramatic, that all couples go through this. But I don’t *want* to “go through it.” I want a partner who respects me, not someone who treats me like staff.
This morning, I told James, “If this carries on, I’m filing for divorce.” He smirked like I was joking. “Oh come off it, Em. Stop being daft. It’s fine.” *Fine for him.* For me, it’s purgatory. I don’t even recognise myself anymore—where’s the confident girl who danced at her wedding? Now I’m just trying to please someone who couldn’t care less.
I’m seriously considering divorce. It won’t be easy—explaining to family, dividing stuff, starting over. People will gossip: “Three weeks married? What kind of wife quits that fast?” But I don’t care. I won’t stay with someone who makes me miserable. I dreamed of a partnership, not servitude. If James doesn’t change, I’m out. Better alone than with someone who takes you for granted.
Still, a tiny part of me hopes. Maybe Mum’s right—maybe it’s just teething troubles? Maybe James will realise he’s losing me and step up? I’ve given myself a week. If nothing changes, I’m calling a solicitor. Until then, I’ll grit my teeth—though every day feels like a bad episode of *Gogglebox*. I look at our wedding photo and wonder: *Where’s the James who promised me happiness? How did I misread him so badly?* But one thing’s certain: I deserve better than this.
