One step closer

The path to my front door is uneven, so when it rains, big puddles form. The Boy likes a good jump in a puddle – it’s part of the job description of being 3.

So tonight, I walked and he splashed his way to the door. I opened it, he went in ahead of me – and deliberately wiped his feet on the only piece of post on the mat. I started to tell him off, and then I saw who it was from. The divorce courts. My divorce papers have arrived. Wipe away, my son…

I have seen them before. My husband brought them round last weekend, to make sure I agreed with what he had written and therefore wouldn’t contest it. And I signed them. I don’t agree with them, but we have to divorce for *something*. As petitioner, he can’t cite his own adultery. As a stubborn cow, I refuse to divorce him – there’s no way I’m paying for a divorce I didn’t want. So we have to divorce for something.

I won’t contest it through the courts. I will contest it here. This is why my husband is divorcing me:

Previous to the birth of The Boy, D worked long hours and commuted a long distance. We moved house to reduce this – this did not work. I always came second to her job, and after returning to work post-maternity this remained the case.
We were in absolutely shit loads of debt and I work in a volatile, redundancy-happy industry. When I returned to work post-maternity leave – just over 2 years ago – I was managing a team of 14 people. Today, I am managing 3. My employers have cut deep. I was the main wage earner, we needed my job to keep him in stupid Alan Partridge Lexuses, so yes. I worked long hours. Diddums.

No love in the relationship, no sexual relations during 2009 and 2010.
This is just a lie. I loved him dearly. And I might have worked long hours, but I made damn sure he knew that I loved him. And we did have sex. I’m not going to say we were at it like rabbits, but then I was a new mother, newly returned to full-time work. For her sake, I sincerely hope his new teen girlfriend doesn’t end up with an episiotomy scar that overheals and needs re-opening and restitching – or, if she does, that she can fuck her way through it better than I could.

I was a house husband, father and also had a high pressured full time job. No help from spouse other than financial.
Hmmm. We had a cleaner, so that’s the chores dealt with. I got The Boy up, dressed and breakfasted in the morning, and off to his childminder. My husband collected him at night – didn’t have to feed him, the childminder did that. My husband did the washing, I did the ironing. Neither of us walked the poor dog. He looked after the cars and the lawn, I did the grocery shopping. Oh, he did ALL the cooking for us, even at weekends, but then he wouldn’t let me. Hated the mess I make in the kitchen, and he was home earlier than me. We’d shifted our working days to suit childcare – he started earlier to finish earlier, I started later to finish later. His idea, not mine. I did all the cooking for The Boy, and led the way in all of the weaning/potty training/child raising decisions. So yeah. No help? Wanker.

Two very separate people with a child in common, no shared interests or friends.
Sort of true, and sort of not. We had shared friends. But they weren’t enough. He specifically wanted me to share HIS friends, and as they all seem to have married the girls who bullied me when I was 17, I wasn’t really up for this. I can see why that would frustrate him, but equally, he should see why hell would freeze over before I’d sit with Jo C at a dinner table.

Ah, that feels better. I have signed to say I’ve received it, and sent it back. One step closer to being totally free.


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