**Diary Entry – 5th June**
I never imagined it would come to this, but here we are—divorced because I refused to be his personal chef. A few days ago, the argument spiralled so badly I threw him out. Now he’s living with his mum in Winchester, while I’m left picking up the pieces after a decade of marriage that turned into pure misery. His mother keeps ringing, pleading for me to take back her *poor little boy*, but frankly, I couldn’t care less what she thinks. I’m done being a servant in my own home.
Even my own mother didn’t back me up. *“Emma, have you lost your mind? You’ll be a single mother! Why are you making Oliver out to be some monster? He’s a decent bloke—doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you, brings in money!”*
I married Oliver when I was barely twenty—young, naive, believing in fairy-tale love. Thanks to my nan, I had my own flat, so it wasn’t like I came with nothing. My parents split when I was young, but my dad’s side never abandoned me—it was his mum who helped me get on my feet. That’s the flat Oliver and I moved into after the wedding. He had nothing, just a share in his mum’s three-bed, but I didn’t care. Back then, love felt like enough.
Six months in, I got pregnant. Our daughter, Sophie, was born just after I turned twenty-one. After maternity leave, I couldn’t find work—no one wanted to hire a mum whose kid was always ill. *“You’ve got a daughter? Sorry, it won’t work.”* No help from his side or mine either, so I was stuck—nappies, cleaning, cooking, day in, day out.
Oliver worked in Southampton, came home late, and we barely saw each other. The housework? All mine. He wouldn’t even take the bins out, let alone wash a plate. I never complained—he was tired, he earned the money! I blamed myself, tried to be perfect, running like a headless chicken just to keep him happy. Then the comments started: *“You’ve got it easy—drop Sophie at nursery and laze about. Can’t even find a job? Look how we’re scraping by!”*
It stung. I felt guilty, like I *was* a burden. So I tried harder—cooked, cleaned, acted the doting wife. But the money rows got worse. Oliver claimed supporting us was breaking him, and his mum made it worse: *“My boy’s worn to the bone because of you!”*
I cracked and found work. Ran myself ragged—Sophie to nursery, straight to the office, picked her up from Mum’s in the evenings. The pay was good, better than Oliver’s. But home life didn’t change. Two weeks in, he exploded again: *“Fridge is empty! No dinner? Why should I take the bins out after work?”*
*“D’you want me hauling Sophie *and* the rubbish to nursery?”* I snapped.
He’d collect Sophie from Mum’s and wait for me. I’d stumble in at eight, shattered—no time for gourmet meals. Quick dinners, sometimes frozen. Still, Oliver whinged: *“Other women manage. What’s your excuse?”*
*“Other blokes earn more and don’t moan!”* I fired back. *“If we both work, we split the chores!”*
I earned more, yet still did *everything*. Oliver insisted cooking and cleaning were *“women’s work”*—he wouldn’t *lower* himself. *“My dad was a real man,”* he’d say. That was it. *“Your dad bought *his* house, didn’t leech off his wife! If it’s so unfair, sod off back to your mum’s!”*
He packed his bags and left. His mum’s been ringing non-stop—*“People will talk! Think of Sophie!”*—but I don’t care. I’m done slaving for someone who doesn’t appreciate me. Sophie’s with me, and we’ll manage. Still, I catch myself wondering—how did I let it go on so long? Love blinded me, but now I see it plain: I deserve better.
