Three weeks of marriage, and already thoughts of divorce.
I have been wed but three weeks, and already I cannot bear it. I wish to file for divorce, for each day with Edward is a trial that twists my heart. My mother, Eliza Anne, insists, “Emily, wait. Do not destroy so swiftly what you have only just built. Give it time—things will settle.” But how can I wait when I already feel I have made the greatest mistake of my life? I loved Edward, believed we would be happy, and now I sit here wondering: how could I have been so wrong?
When we were courting, it was like a fairy tale. He was attentive—bringing flowers, sending sweet notes, vowing we would build the family I had always dreamed of. I saw in him the man with whom I would raise children, travel, laugh at foolish jests. Our wedding was but three weeks past—lovely, with a white gown, dancing till dawn, and toasts to eternal love. I looked at Edward then and thought: here is my happiness. But the moment we began to live together, the fairy tale became a nightmare.
The first warnings came the day after the wedding. We returned from a brief honeymoon in Cornwall, and Edward, instead of helping me unpack, sprawled upon the sofa with his telephone. “Emily, I’m weary—you manage it,” he said. I swallowed my irritation, thinking he truly must be exhausted. But then it became the norm. He leaves dishes unwashed, strews socks about the flat, and when I ask for his help, retorts, “You’re the wife—it’s your duty.” My duty? I, too, work, returning home no earlier than he, yet still I cook supper because he “abhors takeaway.” I thought marriage a partnership, not one serving the other.
Yet worse is the temper I never saw before. He snaps at the slightest thing—if I leave a cup upon the table, if I ask him to take out the rubbish, if I dare bring up matters of importance. The other day, I tried to speak of saving for a motorcar or how we might mark our anniversary. He cut me off: “Emily, don’t nag me; I’ve enough on my plate.” What, pray, occupies him? Lazing about and thumbing through the papers? I look at him now and do not recognise the man who swore to love me forever.
What wounds most is his contempt. Yesterday, weary after work, I made supper. He entered the kitchen and said, “This stew isn’t as good as my mother’s.” I near flung the ladle at him. Not as good? Then go to her! I had tried to please him, yet he could not even thank me. Then he added, “And you might take more care with yourself—lolling about in a dressing gown like some dowager.” That was the final straw. Three weeks a wife, and already he scorns my appearance? I fled to the bedchamber and wept half the night—not for his words, but for the realisation: this is not my Edward. He is a stranger I do not wish to live with.
I rang my mother and told her all. Eliza Anne listened, then said, “Emily, marriage is labour. You must adjust—he will grow accustomed, and so shall you. Do not rush to divorce; give him a chance.” But what chance? I see no effort in him to mend his ways. He does not apologise, does not help, does not value me. I feel a housemaid, not a wife. Mother says I am too sensitive, that all couples endure such trials. But I do not wish to endure. I want a man who respects me, not one who treats me as his due.
This morning, I told Edward, “If this continues, I shall seek a divorce.” He looked at me as though I jested and replied, “Oh, come now, Emily—don’t be dramatic. All is well.” Well? For him, perhaps. For me, it is torment. I do not know myself anymore. Where is the merry, confident girl who danced at her wedding? Now I spend my days trying to please a man who could not care less.
I have begun to consider divorce in earnest. I know it shall not be easy—explaining to family, dividing our possessions, starting anew. Folk will whisper, “Three weeks wed, and already parting? What sort of wife is she?” But I care not for gossip. I will not live with a man who makes me wretched. I dreamed of a family, not servitude. If Edward does not change, I shall leave. Better alone than with one who does not value me.
Yet somewhere deep, I still hope. Perhaps Mother is right—perhaps this is merely an adjustment? Perhaps Edward will realise what he stands to lose and mend his ways? I have given myself a week. If nothing alters by then, I shall go to a solicitor. Until then, I endure—though each day with him is an ordeal. I look upon our wedding portrait and wonder: where is the Edward who promised me happiness? How could I have been so deceived? But one thing I know: I deserve better.
