**Diary Entry**
The other day, my husband and I had such a blazing row that I finally kicked him out. Now he’s staying with his mum in Sheffield, while I pick myself up after a decade of marriage that turned into a living nightmare. His mother is in hysterics, ringing me nonstop, begging me to take her “poor darling boy” back—but I couldn’t care less what she thinks. I’ve had enough of being treated like a maid in my own home.
Even my own mother didn’t support me:
“Emily, have you lost your mind? You’ll be left alone with a child! Why did you have to paint Arthur as some villain? He’s a decent man—doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you, brings money home!”
I married Arthur when I was barely 20—young, naive, still convinced love could conquer all. Thanks to my grandmother, I already had my own flat, so at least I wasn’t left empty-handed. My parents divorced, but Dad and his side of the family never abandoned me. It was his mother who helped me secure the place. This flat was where Arthur and I moved in together after the wedding. He had nothing to his name—just a stake in his mum’s three-bed—but I didn’t care. Love was enough, I thought.
Six months later, I fell pregnant. Our daughter, Charlotte, arrived just after I turned 21. After maternity leave, I couldn’t find work. No employer wanted someone with a child who was always ill. “You’ve got a daughter? Sorry, not a good fit,” I heard over and over. No one could help—not his family, not mine. I was trapped at home, juggling nappies, cooking, and cleaning.
Arthur worked in Manchester, coming home late, barely seeing us. The entire household fell to me. He wouldn’t even take the bins out, let alone wash a single dish. I didn’t dare complain—he was the breadwinner, after all! I blamed myself, trying to be perfect, running myself ragged just to keep him happy. But Arthur started grumbling:
“Must be nice, lounging about after dropping Charlotte at nursery. Can’t even get a job? Look at the state we’re in!”
His words ate at me. I felt guilty, like I was truly leeching off him. So I tried harder—cooking, cleaning, practically waiting on him hand and foot. But the rows over money grew worse. He moaned about how hard it was supporting us, while his mother fuelled the fire: “Look what you’ve done to my boy—he’s exhausted because of you!”
I couldn’t take it. I got a job. My days became chaos: nursery drop-offs, rushing to the office, collecting Charlotte from my mum’s in the evenings. The pay was decent—better than Arthur’s—but nothing changed at home. Two weeks in, he erupted:
“The fridge is empty! No dinner ready! Why should I take the bins out after work?”
“Do you expect me to drag Charlotte to nursery with a bin bag in hand?” I snapped.
Arthur started picking her up from Mum’s and waiting for me. By the time I got home at eight, shattered, elaborate meals were out of the question. Quick meals, sometimes ready-made—but Arthur wasn’t having it.
“Other women manage. What’s your excuse?”
“Other men earn enough without whinging!” I shot back. “If we both work, chores should be split!”
Even though I earned more, the housework stayed mine alone. Arthur refused—cooking and cleaning were “women’s work,” and he wouldn’t stoop to it. He idolised his dad: “Now *that’s* a real man!” I’d had enough.
“Your father bought his own place—he didn’t live off his wife! If you’re so unhappy, go back to your mum!”
He packed his things and left. His mother started ringing straight away, begging me to take him back: “What will people say? Think of Charlotte!” But I don’t care about gossip. I’m done being a servant to a man who values neither me nor my effort. Charlotte’s with me, and we’ll manage. Still, sometimes I wonder: how did I let it go on so long? Love blinded me, but now I see clearly—I deserve better.
