My Husband Raised Me, Believing I Would Fail Without Him – I Decided to Leave

Andrew has been raising me, insisting Id be lost without him, and I finally left.
Are you rummaging through my stuff again? Andrew shouts.

Im not, I reply calmly.

Dont lie! I begged you not to touch the papers on the desk! Wheres my notebook now?

I slip the notebook from the desk drawer the one he tossed in there yesterday after coming home tipsy from a schoolmates reunion. I dont say a word. After almost thirty years of marriage Ive learned its pointless.

Andrew never makes a mistake. Its always me who mixes things up, forgets, and does it wrong.

Here it is, I say, handing him the book. And please, dont shout. The neighbours can hear.

Neighbours, neighbours! he snarls, snatching the notebook from my hands. Youre always worrying about what other people think! You should think about your husband, about how hard it is for him when nothing in his own house can be found!

Rusty, our aging spaniel, whines under the table. He always reacts to raised voices. I bend down and rub his silky ears. Lately it feels as if the dog understands me better than my husband does.

After Andrew storms out, I linger at the kitchen window. Outside, autumn spreads its beauty. The poplars are turning yellow, some leaves already carpet the pavement. The sky is overcast and a drizzle threatens.

When did this happen? I wonder. When did my smart, cultured husband, a university literature lecturer, become this perpetually disgruntled, shouting man?

Did it start after he retired? Or when our son, Dave, moved out with his family to another part of town? Or perhaps it crept in year after year and I simply never noticed, just adapted?

I stand, throw on a raincoat, clip Rustys leash to his collar, and head out for a breath of fresh air. The park is practically empty in this weather perfect.

The park, however, isnt deserted. By the bandstand near the pond a couple sits: a man in his fifties in an expensive overcoat and a woman of the same age.

How many times have I told you not to interfere in my business! the man bellows, his voice echoing across the park. Why did you call my boss? Do you realise how I look? Like a boy whose wife solves his problems for him!

I was just trying to help, Andrew, the woman says, shrinking with each angry shout. You said you didnt have time

Ill sort it out myself! Andrew roars. Good Lord, why do you always meddle? Why cant you just stay at home like a proper woman?

I feel a surge of disgust. In that woman I see myself, shrinking, apologising, becoming smaller with every hostile outburst.

How many times have I stood under a hail of accusations, convinced the fault lay with me, that I must try harder, be more attentive, and not upset my husband?

Andrew stalks away, leaving the woman standing in the beginning rain. She collapses onto the wet bench and covers her face with her hands.

I sit beside her. Rusty gently rests his head on her knees, and she strokes his trembling fur.

Sorry, I say quietly. I didnt mean to eavesdrop. I just couldnt walk past.

She lifts tearstreaked eyes to meet mine. A beautiful woman with delicate features, but a gaze as hollow as a frightened horses.

Its my fault, she whispers. I shouldnt have called

No, I interrupt, my voice steadier than I feel. It isnt you. Believe me, I know what Im talking about. Ive been married for almost thirty years, and for the past ten my husband has been shouting at me constantly. Over everything. Over a soup thats too salty, even though he dumped half a salt shaker into the pot because, apparently, it wasnt salty enough. Over a shirt the wrong shade, even though he chose it himself. Over the rain falling. And apparently its all my fault too.

She stares at me, eyes widened.

Do you know what Ive just realised, looking at you? I continue. This wont get better. It will only get worse. We let it happen. We indulge their whims, stay silent, excuse ourselves, think Hes just tired, he doesnt mean it. They get used to it and start believing they can treat us like a lightning rod for their bad moods.

What should we do? she sobs. We have children, a flat, weve been together for decades

Do you have a life of your own? I ask. Friends he doesnt criticize? Hobbies he doesnt mock? Even one decision youve made without consulting him?

She remains mute, defeated.

You know what, I say, standing from the bench, Im going home now, packing my things and staying with my son. Thats it. I wont spend the rest of my life apologising for simply breathing. Maybe you should think about the same.

We chat a little longer, then part ways.

Back at my flat, I methodically pack my belongings and call Dave.

Dad, can I stay with you for a while?

Whats happened, Mum? he asks, worried. Andrew again?

Yes, him. I cant take it any longer. Can I come?

Of course, he replies.

I leave a short note for Andrew: Andrew, Ive left. Live as you wish. Im filing for divorce. Dont blame yourself, Emma.

I take Rusty with me; Andrew never liked him, always complaining about the fur and the mess.

That evening Andrew phones, shouting as usual, accusing me of losing my mind, saying normal women dont act like this, that he loves me and is only trying to raise me for my own good, that Ill be lost without him.

Andrew, I say calmly, you cant even remember what flowers I like. In thirty years of marriage youve never given me the ones I love. You always bought the cheapest bunch. Thats not love.

Emma! Come to your senses! he yells. You we

Ive already come to my senses. All the best, Andrew.

I hang up. He calls again, then again, until Dave intervenes and finally calms him down. Dave knows how to talk to his father.

About a week later I spot that same woman from the park in a shop. She smiles when she sees me, a spark lighting her eyes.

Thank you, she says, for stepping in that day. You were like an angel, or a messenger of fate!

Im not that, I laugh sheepishly.

No, really! Your words they echoed everything Id been thinking. Word for word. It gave me the courage to go to my mothers, to start divorce proceedings. Its scary, but it feels right.

Right, I nod.