Three Weeks of Marriage and Already Eyeing the Exit
I’ve been married for just three weeks, and I’m already at my wit’s end. Divorce papers are practically calling my name, because every day with Eugene feels like a masterclass in frustration. My mum, Helen, keeps sighing, “Emily, give it time—don’t throw in the towel so fast.” But how am I supposed to wait when I’m already convinced I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life? I loved Eugene, truly believed we’d be happy, and now here I sit, wondering how I got it so spectacularly wrong.
When we were dating, it was all picnics in Hyde Park, surprise bouquets from the florist, and texts that made me grin like an idiot. He swore we’d build the life I’d always dreamed of—kids, holidays in Cornwall, inside jokes that’d last a lifetime. Our wedding three weeks ago was straight out of a rom-com: ivory dress, dancing till dawn, speeches full of grand declarations. I looked at him and thought, *This is it. I’ve won.* Then we moved in together, and the fairy-tale promptly turned into a blooper reel.
The red flags started waving the *second* we got back from our mini-honeymoon in the Cotswolds. Instead of helping unpack, Eugene flopped onto the sofa, phone in hand. “You don’t mind sorting this, do you, love? Absolutely knackered,” he said. I bit my tongue, blaming jet lag (though, honestly, two hours in a train hardly counts). But then it became his modus operandi: leaving dishes piled high, socks strewn like breadcrumbs, and when I dared ask for help? “Well, you *are* the wife,” he’d quip, as if that explained everything. Oh, brilliant—because my 9-to-5 magically vanishes when I walk through the door, does it? I thought marriage was a partnership, not a one-woman support act.
And don’t get me started on his newfound grumpiness. A mug left on the coffee table? Meltdown. Me asking him to take the bins out? Armageddon. The other night, I tried discussing practicalities—saving for a car, anniversary plans—and he cut me off with, “Christ, Emily, not everything needs a five-year plan.” Ah yes, his *hectic schedule* of scrolling football stats. I barely recognise the man who once swore he’d love me “until the last star fizzled out” (his words, not mine—he’d had two G&Ts).
The real kicker? His *critiques*. Last night, after slogging through a workday, I made bangers and mash. He took one bite and said, “Mum’s gravy’s better.” I nearly launched the ladle at his head. *Off you pop to Mum’s, then!* Later, inspecting my cosiest dressing gown, he added, “You’ve let yourself go a bit, haven’t you?” Cue me sobbing into my pillow. Three weeks in, and he’s nitpicking my *loungewear*? That’s when it hit me: this isn’t my Eugene. This is some pod person who’s evicted the man I fell for.
Mum, ever the optimist, insists, “All couples go through growing pains, duck. You’ll find your rhythm.” But I don’t *want* a rhythm where I’m the only one dancing. He doesn’t apologise, doesn’t lift a finger, doesn’t see me as anything but a live-in PA. This morning, I snapped: “Carry on like this, and I’ll file for divorce.” He laughed—*actually laughed*—and said, “Don’t be daft. We’re grand.” *Grand?* For him, maybe. For me, it’s purgatory in a semi-detached.
I’m seriously considering divorce. Yes, there’ll be the inevitable tutting from Aunt Margery, the awkward splitting of the toaster, the dread of online dating profiles. But I’d rather face that than a lifetime of being treated like an afterthought. I wanted a *marriage*, not a servitude contract.
Still, a tiny, stubborn part of me clings to hope. Maybe Mum’s right. Maybe it’s just teething troubles. Maybe Eugene will wake up one day and realise he’s about to lose me. I’ve given us a week. If nothing changes, I’m off to a solicitor. Until then, I’ll keep staring at our wedding photo, wondering: *Where’s the man who promised me the stars?* And more importantly—how did I miss the bloke who can’t even load the dishwasher? But one thing’s certain: I deserve better than “grand.”
