So, me and my husband had this massive row the other day, and I ended up kicking him out. Now he’s holed up at his mum’s place in Manchester, while I’m trying to pick up the pieces after ten years of marriage that turned into a right nightmare. His mum’s absolutely beside herself, ringing me non-stop, begging me to take her “poor boy” back—but honestly, I couldn’t care less what she thinks. I’m done being a live-in maid in my own home.
Even my own mum didn’t take my side. “Emily, have you lost the plot? You’ll be on your own with a kid now! Stop making out like Alex is some monster—he’s a decent bloke. Doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you, brings in money!”
I married Alex when I was just 20—young and daft, head full of fairytales about forever. My nan had left me her flat in Bristol, so it wasn’t like I came with nothing. My parents split ages ago, but Dad and his lot never abandoned me. His mum was the one who sorted the place for me. That’s where Alex and I moved in after the wedding. He didn’t have much—just a share of his mum’s three-bed—but I didn’t care. Thought love was enough.
Six months in, I got pregnant. Our little girl, Lily, was born just after I turned 21. After maternity leave, I couldn’t find work—no one wanted to hire a mum with a toddler always down with some bug. “You’ve got a kid? Sorry, not a good fit,” I heard over and over. No one could help with childcare—not his mum, not mine. So I was stuck at home, drowning in nappies, cooking, and cleaning.
Alex worked over in Birmingham, came home late. Barely saw him. All the house stuff fell on me. He wouldn’t even rinse a plate, let alone take the bins out. I didn’t dare complain—he was the breadwinner, right? Felt guilty, tried to be perfect, ran myself ragged. Then he started moaning: “Must be nice, sitting round all day! Can’t even be bothered to find a job? Look at the state we’re living in!”
Cut deep. Made me feel like a freeloader. So I tried harder—cooked, cleaned, near enough fetched his slippers in my teeth. But the rows about money got worse. He’d go on about how hard it was providing for us, and his mum would pile on: “Look what you’re doing to my boy—he’s worn to the bone because of you!”
I caved, got a job. Mad rush every day—dropping Lily at nursery, dashing to the office, then picking her up from Mum’s in the evening. Salary was decent, even better than Alex’s. But home life? No change. Two weeks in, he blew up again: “Fridge is empty! No dinner ready! Why am I taking the bins out after work?”
“Oh, so I should drag Lily to nursery with a bin bag, should I?” I snapped.
He’d fetch Lily from my mum’s and wait for me at home. I’d crawl back at 8pm knackered—no chance of gourmet meals. Made quick stuff, sometimes ready meals. Not good enough for him: “Other women manage—what’s your excuse?”
“Other men earn enough and don’t whinge!” I shot back. “If we’re both working, we split the chores. Simple.”
I earned more, but the house still ran on my back. Alex swore cooking and cleaning were “women’s work”—not his problem. Kept banging on about his dad: “Now there’s a proper man.” I lost it: “Your dad bought his own place, didn’t mooch off his wife! If it’s all so unfair, do us a favour and move back in with Mummy!”
He packed his bags and left. His mum rang straight away, begging me to take him back—“What will people say? Think of Lily!” But I’m past caring. Tired of being treated like staff by someone who doesn’t appreciate me. Lily’s with me, and we’ll manage. Still, sometimes I wonder—how did I let it go this far? Love blinds you, I suppose. But now I see clearly: I deserve better.
