Divorced my husband in May. He stormed out, slamming the door, off to someone “younger and prettier.” But that’s just details now.
My ex was… typical. Before marriage—attentive, sweet, all the romantic gestures straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Then the free trial ended, and the full version turned out to be severely lacking in features.
Nothing outright criminal, mind you. But there was this one thorn in my side—he became obsessed with counting money. And not in a fair way.
Yes, his salary was, on average, about a tenner more than mine (sometimes mine crept up, sometimes his, but never by much). Yet, somehow, this made him the “breadwinner,” while I was left managing the entire household. His spending logic, though? Brilliantly skewed.
If it was “for the house,” it was money *he* spent on *me*.
“For the house” meant the car with its £200 monthly finance payments—the one he used to drive me to Tesco once a week for groceries.
“For the house” (i.e., “for me”) included blankets, towels, saucepans, and fixing the bathroom.
“For me” also covered kids’ clothes, toys, nursery fees, and doctor’s bills.
“For me” was paying the bills—because, well, *I* handled them. And if the money left *my* account, clearly, they were *my* expenses.
All of it was “the wife’s spending.” Meanwhile, “the husband’s” share of the family budget? Pennies. And in his eyes—and his family’s—I was the “financial black hole.” Earning less, spending nearly all his money. He loved, at the end of the month, to smugly ask how much was left. And, shocker, there was never anything left.
In the last year of our marriage, his favourite line was: “We need to cut back *your* spending. You want too much.” So he cut.
Early on, we’d agreed to keep £100 each for ourselves and pool the rest. Then he decided he’d also keep the difference in our salaries. So he took £200 for himself, while my measly £100 stayed the same. Later, he did some *very complex maths* and slashed his contribution by another £100. His crowning argument? “*Your* shampoo costs £5, while I just use soap.”
Final tally? In our last year together, I got £500 a month to cover the house, groceries, car payments, *and* our child’s needs. He gave £200. I put in £300. Needless to say, it wasn’t enough.
I stopped saving my £100 and poured my whole £400 salary into keeping us afloat—scraping by with bonuses and odd bits of overtime. All while listening to him harp on about how *he* supported *me* and how he’d “reduce my spending even further.” Because, you know, I was clearly just greedy.
Now, some might ask—”Why didn’t you leave sooner?”
Simple. I was daft. I believed him. And his mum. And *my* mum. I genuinely thought this was how things were—he provided, I just couldn’t manage money. I wore threadbare clothes, pinched every penny, swallowed painkillers instead of seeing a dentist (because the NHS waiting list was long, and I couldn’t justify private care).
Meanwhile, he had £300 a month for his *wants*. A new phone. Designer trainers. A £500 subwoofer for the car. All while boasting about his “financial discipline.”
Then, we divorced. Off he fluttered, the great “provider,” to someone who didn’t dress in Primark cast-offs, who had time for the gym instead of cooking, knitting, and budgeting dinner from scratch.
At first, I sobbed. How would I survive without my *breadwinner* and a kid to raise? I tightened the belt even further, dreading the future.
Then… something odd happened. My paycheck landed. And there was still money in my account. A *lot* of it. Normally, by payday, I’d be dipping into my overdraft.
Next came the mid-month pay. More money.
I sat down. Wiped my snotty nose. And did the maths.
Turns out, I *had* lost his salary—or at least the sad £200 he contributed. Plus the £200 car payment. And groceries? I was now spending *half* as much. No one complained that chicken wasn’t “proper meat,” demanded steak, richer soups, or posher sausages. No one turned their nose up at budget cheese, insisting on “decent cheddar for a working man’s sandwich.” (Yes, I used to buy him the expensive stuff while my son and I made do.) No beer. No sweets vanishing by the bucketload.
And no one announced, “*Your* pies are rubbish, I want takeaway pizza.”
I GOT MY TEETH FIXED. Oh my *days*. I GOT MY TEETH FIXED.
I binned my rags, bought *new* (affordable) clothes, and went to a hairdresser for the first time in five years.
Post-divorce, he actually *started* paying child support—a princely £70, which covers nursery and a swimming lesson. Before Christmas, he tossed in an extra £50 with a note: “Buy the kid some oranges and a decent present. Don’t you dare spend it on yourself.”
“On myself.” Hilarious. Drunk on cash, I’d already bought my son everything he’d ever wanted. A telescope. A Lego set. Kid’s smartwatch. Used my bonus to finally fix up his room. For Christmas? A massive hamster cage with two guinea pigs.
In December, I even accepted a promotion—something I’d never have dared before. “*When* will you manage the house?” Turns out, *easily*. No more marathon cooking sessions—no need to make vats of stew, dumplings, or pies (“You think I work to eat *ready meals*?”).
Best of all? No one lords it over me. Calls me a gold-digger. Stresses me out (well, except the ex-MIL, who “visits the grandson” but mostly just photographs my fridge, clothes, and flat).
Right now, I’m sprawled on the sofa, munching pineapple, watching my son carefully feed his guinea pigs (“Mum, is this enough cabbage?”), and I’m… happy. Without him. Without his money.
And who cares if I had to sell Gran’s cottage to buy him out of the flat? Freedom’s worth it.
