We divorced because my wife refuses to cook
The other day, my husband and I had such a blazing row that I kicked him out. Now he’s living with his mum in Sheffield, while I’m picking up the pieces after ten years of marriage that turned into a nightmare. My mother-in-law is horrified, calling and begging me to take back her “poor little boy,” but I couldn’t care less what she thinks. I’m tired of being a servant in my own home.
Even my own mum didn’t support me:
“Emily, have you lost your mind? You’ll be alone with a child! Why are you bad-mouthing James? He’s a decent bloke—doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you, brings home the bacon!”
I married James when I was barely twenty, just a naive girl who believed in everlasting love. Thanks to my gran, I already had my own flat, so it wasn’t like I came with nothing. My parents split up, but my dad and his side of the family never abandoned me. It was his mum who helped me get a place. James and I moved in after the wedding. He had next to nothing—just a stake in his mum’s three-bed—but I didn’t care. I thought love was all that mattered.
Six months in, I got pregnant. Our little girl, Lily, was born just after I turned twenty-one. After maternity leave, I couldn’t find work again. Employers weren’t keen on hiring someone with a young child who was always ill. “You’ve got a daughter? Sorry, you’re not the right fit,” I heard over and over. No one could help—neither my in-laws nor my own family could look after Lily. I was stuck at home, juggling nappies, pots, and hoovering.
James worked in Manchester, came home late, and we barely saw each other. Every chore fell to me. He wouldn’t even take the bins out—let alone wash his own plate. I didn’t dare complain—he was tired, he was earning! I blamed myself, trying to be the perfect wife, running around like a headless chicken to keep him happy. But James started grumbling:
“Your life’s a doddle! Drop Lily at nursery and laze about. Can’t find a job? Look at the state of this place!”
His words stung. I felt guilty, like I really was taking the mickey. So I tried harder—cooking, cleaning, practically fetching his slippers. But the rows about money got worse. James kept saying he was struggling to support us, and his mum made it worse: “My boy’s run ragged because of you!”
I cracked under the pressure and got a job. I was run off my feet—dropping Lily at nursery, racing to the office, then picking her up from my mum’s. The pay was decent, even better than James’s. But nothing changed at home. Two weeks in, he blew up again:
“The fridge is empty! No dinner ready! Why should I take the bins out after work?”
“You want me to drag our kid and a bin bag to nursery?” I snapped.
James would collect Lily from my mum and wait for me. I’d come home at eight, exhausted, with no time for fancy meals. Quick dinners, sometimes ready-made—that’s all I could manage. But James wasn’t having it:
“Other women manage—what’s wrong with you?”
“Other men earn more without whinging!” I shot back. “If we’re both working, we split the chores!”
I earned more, yet still did everything at home. James acted like cooking and cleaning were “women’s work,” and he wouldn’t stoop to it. He’d hold up his dad: “Now that’s a real man!” I’d had enough:
“Your dad bought his own place—not like you, living off his wife! If it’s not good enough, pack your bags and go!”
James left. His mum was straight on the phone, begging me to take him back: “People will talk! Think of your daughter!” But I don’t care what they say. I’m done being a doormat for someone who doesn’t appreciate me or the work I do. Lily’s with me, and I’ll manage. But sometimes I wonder—how did I let it get this far? Why did I put up with it? Love blinded me, but now I see clearly: I deserve better.
