**Diary Entry – May**
Divorced the husband in May. He stormed out, slamming the door, off to someone “younger and prettier.” But that’s beside the point.
My ex was… typical. Before marriage—attentive, affectionate, all the grand romantic gestures. Then the free trial ended, and the full version turned out to be severely limited. No outright cruelty, just this one nagging thorn—money. He started counting every penny, always with a twist.
Sure, his salary was about a tenner more than mine on average (sometimes mine edged up, sometimes his, but never by much). And that, of course, meant he was the “breadwinner,” while I handled everything at home. But his accounting was… creative.
If it was “for the house,” then somehow, *he* was the one spending.
“For the house” meant the car with its £200 monthly loan payments—the same car he used to drive me to Tesco for groceries once a week.
“For the house”—or rather, “for me”—were the blankets, towels, pots, and that bathroom renovation.
“For me” was buying the kid’s clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor visits.
“For me” was paying the bills—because I was the one doing it. And if *I* spent the money, well, clearly it was *my* expense.
All of it was “for the wife.” So “for the husband,” apparently, barely a farthing left the family coffers. To him and his lot, *I* was the “black hole” of the budget. Earning less, spending *his* hard-earned cash.
At month’s end, he’d smirk and ask how much was left. And of course, there was never anything left.
That last year, his favourite line was, “You need a spending limit. You always want too much.” And he *enforced* it.
Early on, we agreed to keep £100 each for ourselves, the rest in the joint pot. Then he decided he’d pocket the difference in our wages—so he took £200. My tenner stayed the same.
Later, another adjustment. “Your shampoo’s £5 a bottle. *I* use a bar of soap.”
By the end? £500 a month for the house, groceries, the car loan, and the kid. He chipped in £200. I covered the other £300. Never enough.
I stopped keeping anything for myself, poured my entire £400 salary into keeping us afloat, scrimping on meals and swallowing painkillers instead of seeing a dentist. Free clinic was “under renovation,” and no way could I justify a private visit—not when he needed new trainers or a car subwoofer, bought with his £300 “fun money.”
And then—divorce. Off he fluttered, the great “provider,” to a woman who didn’t dress in charity shop castoffs, who had time for the gym instead of knitting mittens from old jumpers.
I wept. How would I manage alone with a child?
Then my pay came in.
And there was money left over. *A lot.* Before, by payday, I’d already maxed the credit card. Now? Now there was *extra.*
I sat down. Grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper. Wrote it all out.
Gone was his £200 “contribution”—along with the £170 car loan.
Gone were the endless demands for expensive meats, the complaints about “cheap cheese,” the guilt over pies when he wanted takeaway pizza.
No more beer. No more sweets vanishing by the kilo.
I *fixed my teeth.* Actually *fixed* them.
Tossed the rags I’d been wearing in shame and bought *new* clothes—nothing fancy, just *not* threadbare.
Got a haircut for the first time in five years.
And the child support? A princely £72 a month—just enough for nursery and football club. At Christmas, he sent an extra £50 with a note: *”Buy the kid mandarins and a proper gift. Don’t you dare spend it on yourself.”*
*”On myself.”* Hilarious. Drunk on having actual *money,* I bought my boy everything he’d ever asked for—a telescope, Lego sets, a proper kids’ smartwatch. Used my bonus to finally redecorate his room. For Christmas? A massive cage with two guinea pigs and all the trimmings.
Took that promotion I’d always said no to—who’d clean? Turns out, I manage fine without cooking vats of borscht or rolling dumplings by hand. (*”I’m not paying for shop-bought rubbish.”*)
Best part? No one calls me a gold-digger. No snide remarks. No frayed nerves. (Well, except the ex-mother-in-law’s “visits,” where she photographs the fridge, the clothes, the flat like she’s building a case.)
Right now? Stretched on the sofa, nibbling pineapple, watching my son carefully feed his guinea pigs (*”Mum, is this enough cabbage?”*), and it’s… peaceful. Happy. *Free.*
So what if I had to sell Gran’s old cottage to buy him out?
Peace of mind’s worth every penny.
**Lesson learned: Sometimes losing a man just means finding your life again.**
