My husband vanishes between work and his mother, while I drown in loneliness…
For over a year now, I’ve been living like a single woman. On paper, I’m married—I have a child, a home—but my husband… he simply isn’t here. He’s either working late or disappearing into his mother’s flat. The worst part? He doesn’t see a problem with it. No sympathy, no understanding. To him, everything is fine: he works, he helps his mum, and our home is just a place to sleep.
Friends tell me, “Hang in there, once your maternity leave ends, things will get better.” But I know the truth—it’s not about maternity leave. I’ve finally stopped making excuses for him. Before, I defended him: he was tired, his job was demanding. But now? Now I see my family crumbling, slowly but surely.
We live in Manchester, in an ordinary two-bed flat. I’m currently on maternity leave with our little boy. My husband, Thomas, works for a major logistics firm—recently promoted. Since then, he’s practically vanished from our lives. He comes home near midnight, leaves before dawn. When he’s not working? His “second home”—his mother’s place.
Margaret, his mum, has made it her mission to pull him away since the baby arrived. A leaky tap, a loose door, a faulty socket—always some urgent task. Fine, if it were occasional. But it’s constant. Then, two months ago, she suddenly decided on a full renovation. Of course, just as Thomas was swamped with work. And guess who’s paying? My husband. Us? We’re scraping by on leftovers from his pay. Child benefits barely cover half the nappies.
When Thomas had holiday time, he suggested doing the renovation then. But Margaret refused: “It’s fine as it is, no need to change.” Now? It’s an emergency! The wallpaper’s peeling, the ceiling’s uneven… So now, every weekend, he’s at hers. Always the same: “I’ll just pop round for a bit.” He doesn’t come back till past midnight. I don’t even know who the main woman in his life is anymore—me or his mother.
Margaret shows zero interest in her grandson—unless it’s through Thomas. Never asks me how he is, never offers to help, never visits to let me rest. But she’s quick to give orders: “Tommy, don’t forget to stop by, the cabinets need adjusting, then the tiles—”
I’m exhausted. Exhausted of being lonely with a husband who’s alive. Exhausted of watching our son reach for his dad, only for Thomas to march straight to the shower, eat in silence, and collapse into bed. I’ve tried talking, explaining we need a family—not a man chasing his mother’s approval. But he just brushes me off:
“I’m not out with other women, am I? I bring home money. What more do you want? Should I quit my job?”
Yes, he provides. But money? I can earn that myself. What I can’t give our son is a father who’s always “busy” at his mum’s. I don’t need a cash machine. I need a husband. A partner. A friend. A dad for my child.
So here I sit, in this flat—surrounded by toys, nappies, endless fatigue. Feeling abandoned. Forgotten. Alone. Even with a wedding ring on my finger.
