He behaves horribly, projecting his small-town insecurities, yet I can’t bring myself to leave him!
When my marriage fell apart, it felt like the ground had vanished beneath me. The divorce was devastating—I was convinced I’d never escape that darkness.
The only thing that kept me from sinking into despair was my job. I clung to it like a lifeline. My parents, friends, and colleagues all reached out, though Mum and Dad seemed to suffer even more than I did, seeing my pain. After a year or two, I slowly began to recover, step by step, rediscovering the woman I’d been before the wreckage.
Then Oliver stormed into my life. Because of him, I lost everyone who mattered, and now I stand at a crossroads, unsure how to break free from this nightmare. I won’t say I was madly in love—it wasn’t like that. But I enjoyed his company. We strolled along the riverbank in our little Yorkshire town, and he seemed so straightforward, so easy to talk to. It was nice having him over—he’d fix the leaky tap, tinker with my old car (which I know nothing about), while I cooked dinner, and we chatted about anything and everything.
Maybe I’m just making excuses, but bit by bit, I let Oliver into my life. He moved into my flat in Leeds, and from that moment, everything went downhill. His constant unemployment infuriated me—always getting sacked or quitting, complaining about his bosses. His mates, a rowdy bunch of wasters, dragged him to the pub, and he’d buy their drinks even when he could barely scrape together rent.
Life with him became unbearable. He’d bring home shady characters—no warning, no asking if I minded. He didn’t care if I was exhausted after a shift, whether I had the energy to cook for a crowd or even make tea. One by one, my real friends—the ones who’d stood by me in my darkest days—stopped visiting. If someone did drop by, Oliver was insufferable—rude, snide, always airing his grudges.
He never stopped moaning about his rotten luck—born in some forgotten village near Durham, dropped out of college, no qualifications. And he took it all out on me, glaring as if I owed him something, demanding money for fags despite never earning a penny. Everyone told me, “Emma, he’s using you—kick him out!” But I stubbornly insisted they were wrong, even though deep down, I knew the truth. Admitting it hurt too much.
The strangest part? Sometimes I wonder if I’m the one using him. Yes, he’s unbearable, but without him, I’m terrified of being alone. At 43, options aren’t exactly plentiful—who’d want a divorced woman with a battered heart? I don’t want to live like a ghost in a silent flat. So I endure—his tantrums, his endless whinging, the stale stench of lager. At least when he drinks, he passes out on the sofa, giving me a brief respite from his presence.
Why don’t I leave? Every day, I ask myself: What keeps me here? 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 is an anchor dragging me down, yet somehow, I mistake the weight for security. I watch him sneer about “posh twats” or mutter that I’m “too posh” for him, and I say nothing. I stir his soup silently, my blood boiling with rage and helplessness.
Mum and Dad have stopped calling as much—tired of repeating themselves. My friends have vanished. There’s just me… and him. Sometimes I look at him, snoring in his chair, and think, “Emma, is this really all you deserve?” But I push the thought away. At least he doesn’t shout or hit me—it could be worse, couldn’t it?
Tell me, would you stay if you were me? Could you start over at my age? I don’t know the answer. For now, I just keep going, living as I can—with him, with his resentments and my quiet despair. Maybe one day I’ll find the strength to walk away. Or maybe I’ll stay—a prisoner to my fears and his wretched temper. Time will tell.
**Lesson:** Sometimes what we fear most isn’t the storm, but the quiet after it passes. Yet staying in the storm just to avoid silence is no life at all.
