**Diary Entry: A New Beginning**
Divorce in Mayhe left, slamming the door behind him, for someone “younger and prettier.” But thats just the fine print now.
My husband was ordinary. Before marriage, he played the partattentive, sweet, all the tired romantic gestures. Then the trial version expired, and the full version left much to be desired.
Nothing criminal, of course. Just a constant thorn. He became stingy, tallying every penny with creative maths. True, he earned about £200 more than me (salaries fluctuated, but not much). That, apparently, made him the “provider,” while I carried the household. Expenses? He had a special formula.
If purchases were “for the house,” then *he* had spent them *on me*.
“For the house” meant the car with £300 monthly paymentsthe one he used to drive me to Tesco once a week.
“For the house”meaning “for me”were the blankets, towels, pots, the bathroom repairs.
“For me” were the childs clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor visits.
“For me” was paying bills because *I* handled them. If the money left *my* hand, it was *my* spending.
All of it was “for the wife.” So for *him*, as it turned out, barely a penny left the family budget. To him and his family, I was a “financial black hole.” Earned less, spent nearly everything he brought in. He adored asking, smirking at months end, how much was left. Never enough, of course.
The last year, his mantra was: “We must cut *your* expenses. You always want too much.” And he cut.
At first, we agreed £100 each for personal spendingthe rest went to shared costs. Then he kept the salary difference. So, £200 for him, £100 for me. Later, he slashed his contribution furtheranother £100. His logic? “Your shampoo costs a fiver. I wash my hair with soap.”
By the end, I had £500 a month for the house, groceries, car payments, and our son. £200 from him, £300 from me. Impossible. I stopped setting aside my £100 and poured my entire £400 paycheck in. Survived on bonuses, endured lectures about being wasteful. How *he* supported me. How he’d tighten the belt further.
*Why didnt you leave sooner?*
Because I was a fool. Believed him. And his mother. And mine. Theyd convinced me it was true*he* kept me afloat, and *I* couldnt manage money. Wore threadbare clothes, counted pennies, swallowed painkillers, skipped the dentist (NHS waitlists were endless, and private care was out of reach).
Meanwhile, he spent £300 a month on whims. Bragged about “budgeting.” Bought new phones, designer trainers, a ludicrously priced car stereo.
Then, divorce. The great “provider” flew into the arms of a woman who doesnt wear second-hand clothes, who hits the gym, who doesnt spend nights scraping meals together from leftovers or knitting socks for our son from spare wool.
I cried, of course. How would I survive without *his* support, raising a child alone? Tightened my belt, stared at the future in terror.
Then payday came. Or ratherit landed, same as ever, but this time, money *remained*. Before, Id already maxed the credit card by salary day.
Next came the bonus. The sum grew.
I sat down. Wiped my tears. Grabbed paper. Added it up: “Income,” “Outgoings.” Yes, his salary was goneor rather, the £200 hed tossed my way (he always kept £300 for himself). And the £300 car payment? Vanished.
Groceries? Less than half now. No complaints that chicken “isnt proper meat.” No demands for pork chops, steak, or hearty soups. No sneers at cheap cheese. No beer. Sweets didnt vanish by lunchtime. And no one said, “Your cakes are rubbish. Order a pizza.”
**I GOT MY TEETH FIXED!!!** God, *I got my teeth fixed!*
Tossed the old clothes. Bought simple, decent ones. Went to a hairdresser for the first time in five years.
Post-divorce, he begrudgingly sent £70 a monthenough for nursery and football club.
At Christmas, £50 extra: “Buy the lad a proper gift. Dont waste it on yourselfI know you.”
“On *myself*.” I laughed. With money in my pocket, Id bought my son everything he wanted. A simple telescope, Lego, a kids watch.
With a bonus, I finally redid his room. For Christmas, a huge cage with two guinea pigs and all the trimmings.
In December, I accepted a promotionnever wouldve dared before. “When would I manage it all?” Now? I do. No need to cook elaborate meals or stockpile food.
Best of all? No one calls me a parasite. No one grinds my nerves. (Well, except his mother, who “visits the grandson” while photographing the fridge, our clothes, the house.)
Now Im on the sofa, eating pineapple, watching my boy carefully feed the guinea pigs”Mum, did I put the food right?”and Im happy. Without him. Without *his* money.
And to hell with the grandmas cottage I sold to split the flats value. Freedom and peace? Worth every penny.
**Anonymous**
