I was his wife for eight years, and for so long, I believed he was just an ordinary man. It wasnt until the divorce that his true colours showed; all that rot within him came seeping out. Now, when I think back on all those years spent at his side, I feel little more than repulsionthough I am grateful to have broken free from him.
Arthur and I courted for a year before marrying, so in all, we had nine years together. Of course, much happened in that time: arguments and reconciliations, laughter and tearsthe usual ebb and flow of life, or so I thought. My parents have had their share of ups and downs too, having been married fifty years now, and I imagined our life followed the same pattern.
We had a son together; hes six now, but was just five when the marriage ended. Arthur never truly cared for our boy, insisting he was still young and promising, always promising, that hed take more interest when our son was older.
He barely lifted a finger around the house either. At most, hed wash a few dishes or take out the bins. His mother had raised him to believe the home was a womans realm; a man had no business with housework.
Ah, my mother-in-lawnow she was another matter entirely. Thank heavens she lived in Birmingham and only visited three times a year. Even then, I tired quickly of her visits. Whenever Arthur and I would strike up some new arrangement about sharing the housework, she would sweep in, armed with her own old-fashioned rules, and all would be in disarray again.
What stung most was her endless chatter about breadwinners and dependents. In truth, I was the primary earner in our family; my salary was far greater than Arthurs ever was.
In the final year, Arthur lost his job. During the pandemic, his company managed to keep afloat, and we breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the hardest was over. We were wrong. The firm folded, and everyone was made redundant. Arthur began searching for work anew.
Either the pay was paltry, the job was too far afield, or he lacked sufficient experience. The employers all seemed questionable to him somehow. So, Arthur stayed home, while I kept us afloat working two jobsleaving one to collect our son from nursery and then hurrying to the next. Arthur, of course, had no time for household duties; he was terribly busy job hunting, firing off applications and trudging out for interviews.
Yetby some strange stroke of fatehe never found a single role he desired or could accept. Nor did I have any help in the home. Naturally, resentment grew. I started quarrelling, to which Arthur responded by storming out, slamming doors, and spending nights at friends houses. There were a few last chances, but Arthur squandered them all.
At last, I reached my limit. I packed his belongings and turned him out of the flatmy flat, gifted by my parents before we wed. I filed for divorce. Arthur made a few attempts at reconciliation, but by then I was so weary, so disappointed, I could no longer put stock in his words or promises.
We divorced, but to this day, my ex-husband and his mother keep spreading poison about me. I was slandered in every possible way, but I couldnt care less what people think. What stings is that he hurled insults at my parentsspread the vilest liesall directed at elderly folk who deserved peace, not fresh worries at their time of life.
To top it off, when I was out, he used his key to enter my home and took my laptop, a coat, the microwave, and some jewellery. I had no receipts for any of it, so there was little point in going to the policenothing could be proven. It was my own fault, truly; I shouldve changed the locks at once, though I never imagined hed stoop so low.
But the greatest shock came in court, when he demanded a paternity testclaiming he no longer believed our son was his own. I flatly refused, informing him that his suspicions were justifiedthat he was not the father. The lie stunned them both, Arthur and his mother; their faces alone made it worth it.
As a result, Arthurs name was struck from our sons birth certificate, and I was finally, completely free. Ive heard tell of fathers who refuse to let mothers travel with their children, who threaten and control, but in my case, fate handed me a gift: in the end, my ex solved all my problems for me.
He and his mother know well enough that my son is hishe is the very image of Arthur. But I want nothing to do with those people, nor do I wish them to see my son. Legally, they are now strangers to him. They outdid themselves, truly. I dont need their help; I dont even want a penny of their money.
