“Divorce isn’t a disgrace. The real shame is living in misery.”
“Don’t you dare even think about divorce! It’ll bring shame on the whole family!” My mum was practically shouting down the phone. Every time I heard those words, something inside me twisted. I couldn’t understand—what was so shameful about not wanting to be unhappy anymore? About things not turning out the way I’d dreamed when I was younger?
Mum always said the same thing: “No one in our family has ever divorced, and no one ever will. If you got married, you stay married! You chose him—now you put up with him!” My sister would just nod along, parroting back, “Everyone lives like this. Everyone has problems. Just don’t embarrass the family!” But I couldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t want to just endure. I was exhausted.
Yes, they were right about one thing—it had been my choice. Mine alone. Five years ago, I married Edward, a man I’d fallen head over heels for. I was sure he was the one—kind, a homebody, with a good sense of humour. I thought we wanted the same things. But the illusions crumbled fast.
Within a year, I knew I’d made a mistake. He wasn’t kind, just childish. Not a homebody, just lazy. Not calm—just indifferent to everything except football and pints. Every evening, it was the same: sofa, phone, beer. At first, I told myself it was stability, comfort. Then I realised—he wasn’t interested in anything. Had no ambition, no drive.
He kept me shut in, didn’t let me see my friends, barely let me leave the house without him. I used to think it was jealousy, love. Now I know—it was just convenient for him. I was always there, always ready to fetch, cook, clean.
I used to admire him, thought he was this strong, capable person. Turned out he was just lazy, content to moan about his job rather than do anything to improve. I tried to change things—talked to him, encouraged him, suggested things. Pointless. He didn’t want to hear it, didn’t care. Just the same cycle of arguments, sulks, silence. Then, just as I decided to leave, I found out I was pregnant.
He changed, briefly—got a better job, became more attentive. I let myself hope. But soon enough, everything slid back. And there I was, trapped in the house with a baby and this drowning feeling that I couldn’t escape.
My friends were gone—I’d avoided them to keep him happy, barely left the house. Only Mum was left, and instead of support, all I got was judgement. “You’re overreacting. He doesn’t drink heavily, doesn’t hit you, has a job—what’s the problem? He’s not a monster.” But since when does it have to be that bad before you’re allowed to be unhappy? Does he have to hit me? Cheat? Abandon us? Isn’t it enough that I’m dying inside, that I don’t even recognise myself anymore?
The first time I mentioned divorce to Mum, my son was only a year old. “It’s just postnatal depression,” she said. “It’ll pass. Besides, you live in his house, you’ve got no job—I won’t take you in, so just stay put and stop overthinking.” Again—endure, shame, disgrace. But the real shame, in my eyes, was living with someone who made me miserable.
It only got worse. Money was tight, and somehow, that was always my fault—”You spend too much.” He didn’t lift a finger around the house, didn’t help with our son. Criticised me over nothing, even when I was at breaking point. I turned to Mum again, and all she said was, “Once your maternity leave’s over, things will get easier. It’ll sort itself out.” But when I brought up divorce again, she lost it. “Have you lost your mind? A single mum with a kid? You want to raise him without a father? Your sister puts up with worse—her husband even hits her sometimes!”
I looked at my sister and wondered—when did we stop being people? When did suffering become normal? Just because she has it worse, why should I measure my pain against hers?
Lately, Edward had started saying one thing a lot: “Don’t like it? Leave.” He knew I had nowhere to go. Mum wouldn’t take me. I couldn’t afford a place of my own. No one to help with our son. He loved having that power. And I was disappearing.
But last week, I called my old boss. We talked properly, and she offered to help—said she’d find a way to take me back, even with a little one. Just the housing left to sort. And if it works out—I’m leaving. Finally.
I don’t care what Mum says. Don’t care about relatives, gossip, judgement. I’m done pretending. I want to live. It can’t get worse—I’ve already lived through hell. Now I just want to be happy. Even if it means starting from zero—at least I’ll be free.
