He behaves horribly, projecting his village-born insecurities onto me, yet I can’t bring myself to leave him!
When my marriage collapsed, it felt as though the ground had crumbled beneath me. The divorce was a cataclysm—I thought I’d never claw my way out of that abyss.
The only thing that kept me from drowning in despair was my job. I clung to it like a life raft. My parents, friends, colleagues—everyone reached out, though Mum and Dad seemed to suffer more than I did, watching me unravel. After a year or two, I began stitching myself back together, inch by inch, reclaiming the woman I’d been before the wreckage.
Then Oliver stormed into my life. Because of him, I’ve lost everyone who ever mattered, and now I stand at a crossroads, unsure how to escape this nightmare. I wouldn’t say I fell head over heels—no, it wasn’t like that. But I enjoyed his company: strolling along the riverbank in our little Yorkshire town, he seemed so uncomplicated and warm. It was nice to invite him over—he’d fix the leaky tap, tinker with my battered old car (which I know nothing about), while I cooked dinner and we chatted about everything under the sun.
Perhaps I’m just making excuses, but bit by bit, I let Oliver weave himself into my life. He moved into my flat in Leeds, and from then on, everything spiralled downward. It infuriated me how he drifted from job to job—either sacked or quitting in a huff, moaning about his bosses. His mates, a rough lot of drunkards, dragged him to dingy pubs where he’d buy rounds despite barely scraping by.
Life with him became unbearable. He’d bring home shady characters unannounced, never asking if I minded. He didn’t care if I’d just finished a gruelling shift, if I had the energy to cook for a crowd or even boil the kettle. One by one, my true friends—the ones who’d stood by me in the darkest days—stopped visiting. And if anyone did drop by, Oliver would act like a proper brute. Even alone, he’d sour the air: snapping, sneering, unloading his bitterness onto me.
He never stopped whinging about his rotten luck—growing up in some backwater village near Lincoln, dropping out of technical college without a diploma. And he took it all out on me, glaring as if I owed him something, shaking me down for fag money though he hadn’t earned a penny in months. Everyone warned me: “Emily, he’s using you—kick him out!” But I dug my heels in, insisting they were wrong. Deep down, I knew the truth. Admitting it just hurt too much.
Here’s the odd thing: sometimes I wonder if I’m using *him*. Yes, he’s insufferable, but without him, I’m terrified of being alone. At 43, options are few—who’d look twice at a divorced woman with a bruised heart? I dread the silence of an empty flat, the slow suffocation of solitude. So I endure. His antics, his endless whinging, the stench of stale lager. At least when he drinks, he doesn’t rage—just passes out on the sofa, granting me a few hours’ reprieve.
Why don’t I leave? Every day, I ask myself: what binds me to him? Love? No, that’s long gone, if it ever existed. Fear? Yes, probably. Fear of loneliness, fear that no one else will ever knock on my door. Oliver’s a millstone around my neck, yet somehow, that weight feels like salvation. I watch him lash out—snarling that everyone looks down on him, muttering that I’m “too posh” for his liking. And I stay quiet. Quietly ladle soup into his bowl while fury and despair churn inside me.
Mum and Dad hardly ring anymore—weary of saying the same thing. Friends have vanished like smoke. It’s just me. And him. Sometimes I watch him snoring in the armchair and think, *Emily, is this really all you deserve?* But I push the thought away. After all, he doesn’t hit me, doesn’t scream in the night—it could be worse, couldn’t it?
Tell me—would you stay in my shoes? Could you start over at my age? I don’t know the answer. For now, I carry on as best I can—with him, with his rust-belt resentment and my quiet desperation. Maybe one day I’ll find the strength to walk away. Or maybe I’ll stay—a prisoner of my own fears and his vile temper. Only time will tell.