My Husband Gave Me an Ultimatum, So I Chose Divorce

Stop! Im not finished yet! Where are you off to? Am I talking to a wall? Victor Harringtons voice boomed through the flat, ricocheting off the lofty Victorian ceilings.

Poppy Ellis froze in the kitchen doorway, clutching a towel so hard her knuckles turned white. She turned slowly. The calm, bright eyes she usually wore were now clouded with a heavy, dark fatigue.

Victor, Im exhausted. Weve been at this for three hours. I have a night shift at the hospital tomorrow; I need to sleep.

Night shift! Victor gestured wildly, sweeping his arms across the kitchen, almost grazing the table with his hip. Thats exactly what Im talking about! Youre wrapped up in your patients, your IV drips, and those evermoaning old men. And at home? Anything? A barren kitchen? A husband who never cooks, shirts left unironed?

The dinner is on the stove, the shirts are hanging in the cupboard, Poppy replied softly but firmly. I manage everything.

You call that managing? Victor snapped, pointing at the stove. Storebought meatballs? Readymade meals? By the way, I earn enough that my wife doesnt have to feed me on a diet of surrogate meals. I want homecooked food, a house that smells of pies, not the antiseptic stench that follows you on a milelong walk from the ward!

Instinctively, Poppy inhaled the scent of her homeworn dressing gown. It smelled of laundry softener. Lately, Victor seemed haunted by a hospital smell wherever he went. Since his promotion to deputy director of a major construction firm, his demands had grown exponentially.

Victor, Im a senior sister on the cardiology ward. Thats my profession, my life. People depend on me there.

People? And Im not needed? My family not needed? He closed the distance, his heavy frame looming over her, scented with expensive cologne and a hint of brandy. Bottom line, Poppy, Im fed up. Im embarrassed in front of my partners. All their wives are polished, hitting the gym, doing charity. Mine is a nurse. You remember how Mr. Sykes looked when he learned youre pulling night shifts?

I dont pull night shifts, I organise the ward

It doesnt matter! Victor cut her off, slapping the air with his palm. The point is youre support staff; Im status. They cant mix.

He paused, as if savoring the moment before delivering a verdict.

Im giving you an ultimatum. Either you submit a voluntary resignation tomorrow, stay at home, attend to yourself, my motherinlaw who constantly complains of loneliness, and keep me comfortable or were done. Choose: your petty job or a secure family life. I give you until Friday.

Victor turned and stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door so hard the dishes in the drying rack rattled.

Poppy stood alone, her head pounding. Twenty years of marriage. Theyd started in a cramped dorm room; shed been a nursing student, he a polytechnic lad. Shed worked as a night cleaner, scrubbing floors so he could finish his dissertation without a break. She remembered sharing a single sausage, thinking it romantic.

When had he become this aloof, detached man for whom she was merely a function, an inconvenient piece in his picture of success?

Mechanical, she hung the towel on a hook, switched off the light, and drifted to the bedroom. Victor was already snoring on the kingsize bed. She curled up at the edge, as she had for the past six months, careful not to touch him. Sleep eluded her; the phrase either family or work looped in her mind.

At dawn she rose before him, brewed coffee, and made him toast with smoked salmon on wholegrain bread, just as he liked. She didnt eat a bite herself.

The ward was a whirl as usual. A heavycase of heart attack arrived, followed by a healthboard inspection, then paperwork. Poppy spun like a hamster in a wheel, but among the smell of alcohol wipes and chlorine, the beeping monitors, she felt alive. Nurse Ellis, look at the ECG, a doctor called. Thank you, the patients father is improving. Here she was a person, respected.

During lunch her longtime friend and colleague, Lucy, stopped by the oncall room.

Poppy, why so pale? Blood pressure again? Or is your billionaire boyfriend causing trouble?

Poppy managed a bitter smile, stirring her cooling tea.

He set a condition. Quit, stay home, stew borscht, or divorce.

Lucy choked on her biscuit. Youre serious? Youre the best cardiology specialist! Theyd carry you on a silver platter. Youd wilt behind four walls!

He says hes ashamed. Its not classy to have a nurse wife.

Shame? When you dragged him home drunk from the staff party, nursing him back to health so he could greet the morning like a cucumber, did he feel ashamed? When you juggled two jobs while he built his empire, did he feel any shame? Hes a parasite! What do you think?

Poppy stared out at the grey autumn rain washing the pavement.

I dont know, Lucy. It frightens me. Im fortythree. The flat is in his name; he transferred it when we expanded, I signed the waiver naïvely. I have only my salary and my mother in a village. Where do I go?

To your mothers, if youre lucky, or rent a place. Your salarys decent; itll cover one flat. But endure such humiliation Hell eat you alive. Stay home and youll be nagged about everything, begged for money for tights. We know those lords of life.

That evening Poppy returned, feeling like she was walking to a scaffold. Victor lounged in the lounge before a massive TV, watching the news.

So? he asked without turning. Thought about it? Friday is two days away.

Victor, lets talk calmly. Why this? I wont quit my job, but I could go parttime

He switched off the TV, flinging the remote onto the sofa.

No halfmeasures! I said home. End of story. I need a wife who greets me with a smile and a threecourse dinner, not a exhausted workhorse. And my mother called she needs care. Ill move her into the spare room where your books and sewing machine sit. Well toss the junk, put a bed in for her, and youll look after her. Use your skills for the family, not strangers grandparents.

The words hit Poppy like a cold shower. His mother, Antonia Harrington, was a domineering, sharptongued woman who had never liked Poppy, branding her a country bumpkin unworthy of her brilliant son. Living under her roof as a servant was the nightmare Victor was selling as a secure life.

You want me to be a freeofcharge caregiver for your mother? Poppy asked quietly.

Freeofcharge? Victor sounded genuinely puzzled. Ill give you a household allowance, an extra card. Youll buy groceries, medicine, even cosmetics. Whats wrong? Youll live in a luxurious flat, floating like cheese in butter. Any other woman in your shoes would be over the moon!

Im not just any woman, Victor. Im a person.

Dont start that philosophy now! he grimaced. By Friday evening I expect your employment record on this table. Otherwise, pack your things on Saturday.

Wednesday and Thursday drifted like fog. Poppy went to work, smiled at patients, but a ringing emptiness echoed inside her. She saw her life narrowing into a corner.

Thursday night Victor brought gueststwo business partners with their polished wives. He warned Poppy an hour beforehand: Set the table, order something from a restaurant, look presentable, and for heavens sake, dont mention your injections.

The evening turned into a torture chamber. The partners wives gossiped about Maldivian holidays, new spas, and nanny woes.

So, Poppy, what do you do? one asked, lazily spearing a rocketleaf salad with shrimp.

Poppy opened her mouth, but Victor beat her to it.

Poppy here is our hearth keeper. She does interior design, prepares the house, and soon my mother will move in, so shell redecorate for comfort.

He pressed his heavy hand onto her shoulder, squeezing so hard she wanted to scream. He lied effortlessly, concealing her real life.

How admirable! the guest cooed. Its rare to meet a woman devoted to family these days. Men need a backstage.

Victor smiled, pouring wine. A backstage. My fortress.

Poppy sat, eyes down, feeling herself shrink, becoming a speck of dust on his expensive blazer, easily brushed away.

When the guests left, Victor was smug.

See? All good. You didnt ruin anything with your silence. Smart girl. Remember, Friday is tomorrow. No real choice, is there? Who do you need at fortysomething without a home?

He gave her a patronising pat on the rear and strutted to the shower, humming a tune.

Poppy washed the crystal glasses, and suddenly a clarity cut through the haze. There is no choice. He was so sure of his ownership that rebellion never entered his mind. She was a convenient slipper at the halls entry.

She dried her hands, stared at her reflection in the dark windowa tired woman with sorrowful eyes. Is this all that remains? To be a footstool for a tyrant husband and a capricious motherinlaw?

She recalled a week earlier rescuing a young man whose heart stopped in the A&E. Shed fired the defibrillator, shouted Shock! and later watched his mother weep, kissing her hands. Could that be traded for ironing shirts and enduring Antonias lectures?

Friday morning, Poppy rose as usual. Victor still slept. She didnt make coffee. Silently she fetched an old suitcase from the pantrythe same one theyd once taken on a holiday to Brighton.

She packed only the essentials: clothes, underwear, beloved books, her sewing machine, and documents. No fur coat hed bought her so she wouldnt be embarrassed, no jewellery.

As she zipped the suitcase, Victor awoke, scratched his belly, and lingered in the doorway.

Whats this performance? he yawned. Going to the country house to get some air? Or moving Mum early? Nice initiative.

Poppy buckled the suitcase, stood upright, met his gaze. For the first time in ages, her eyes were calm and resolute.

Im leaving, Victor.

He laughed, a booming, genuine laugh.

Where to? The space under the fridge? Stop the circus, Poppy. Put the suitcase down, make breakfast. Im late. And dont forget the resignation letter; todays the last day.

Ive already written it, she said.

Victors laughter died.

Show me.

Ive submitted the divorce petition on GOV.UK half an hour ago, and Ive booked a weeks leave to handle the move. Im not quitting my job.

His face flushed with anger.

Youre joking? Divorce? Do you realise what youll have? Nothing! Naked, barefoot, out on the street! I wont give you a penny! Ill take the car! The flat is mine! Youll die by the wall!

The car I dont need; Im fine on the tube. The flat is yourslive in it comfortably. As for die by the wall Im a nurse, Victor. I know how to survive. Ive got a room with a kind old lady near the hospital. Itll be enough.

She grabbed the suitcase handle.

You wont get out of this flat! he roared, stepping forward. Ill lock you in! Youre my wife; you must obey!

Dont come near me, Poppy whispered. Touch me and Ill press charges. All my colleagues are friends. You want a scandal? Deputy director assaulting wife? Will Sykes comment?

Victor froze. The mention of his reputation and the senior partner Sykes hit like a cold splash. He was a coward, she knew. He could only roar at those weaker than himself.

Get out, he spat, saliva flying. Get out! Try to crawl back on your kneesI wont let you! Ill leave you at the door with Mumno!

I chose myself, Poppy replied.

She slipped past him, shoulders brushing his, slipped into the hallway, slipped into a coat, shoes. Her heart hammered, but her hands stayed steady.

She pushed open the front door. The stairwell smelled of fried chips and dampness, but to her it smelled of freedom.

Leave the keys! he shouted after her.

She took the bunch of keys and placed them neatly on the table.

Goodbye, Victor. Theres soup in the fridge for two days. After that, youre on your own. Or call Mum.

She slammed the door, cutting off his shouts. She called the lift; as it descended, her phone pinged. A bank message: Your card has been blocked at the account holders request.

She smiled. Shed expected it. Inside her bag lay her salary card, topped up with six months savingsshed stopped spending frivolously, believing this day would come. The funds were modest but enough for a deposit and food.

Outside, rain fell, now feeling cleansing. She breathed deeply. Ahead lay uncertainty: a room with a kind old lady patient, endless shifts, solitude. But fear had gone. No more appeasing, no more shrinking.

A week later Victor turned up at the hospital, drunk and dishevelled. Security barred him from the ward; he caused a scene in the reception, shouting for that idiot.

Poppy descended in her white coat, calm, confident.

What do you want? she asked, looking at the stranger he had become.

Poppy, enough, he slurred, shifting tone. Mums here, its a mess. No shirts, nothing to eat. Come back, Ill forgive you. Ill even let you work parttime.

The orderlies and patients gathered, watching.

Victor, leave, Poppy said. Ive filed for divorce. The court will grant it next month; no children, no joint assets.

Youll regret this! he shouted, his voice cracking. Youre nothing without me!

Security! Poppy called out. Remove this man; hes breaching public order.

Strong guards seized Victor, dragging him out despite his curses and threats of divine retribution.

Back in the ward, Lucy asked, He showed up?

Yeah, Poppy replied.

Regret it?

Poppy glanced at the steady ECG on the monitor. The rhythm was even, sure. Life went on.

You know, Lucy, she said, smiling, I only regret not doing this five years earlier. But now Im fine. Im breathing.

That evening she entered her tiny rented room. It was clean, quiet, scented with dried herbs. The landlady, a sweet old woman named Anne, baked cabbage pies.

Come sit, Poppy, have some tea, she called.

Poppy took a seat at the simple table, bit into a hot pastry. It tasted better than any oyster or foie gras at Victors gatherings, because it carried no bitterness of humiliation. She was home, in her own space. Tomorrow awaited her beloved work, saving lives, not serving anyones ego.