I load the remains of a family meal into the dishwasher. I don’t rinse and I just cram them haphazardly – bowls, plates, glasses – they’re all piled on top of each other.
Knock, knock, crash. My husband is quiet, but I can almost feel his anger from the kitchen. When the machine crashes like Buckaroo’s pottery game, I triumphantly close the door and spin around, chin bowed. I dare you to comment.
Of course, 20-year marriages like ours don’t just end in household conflicts; It’s these small, domestic actions that often signal the beginnings of marital decay. He was getting irrationally annoyed when he left the recycling drawer ajar while filling the car with gas and never filling it up.
My passive-aggressive actions slowly seeping into our daily lives made me realize that we needed to make time for our twenty-year relationship.
A year ago, we announced our separation while sitting in the same kitchen with our three teenage children. The words we said were cliché but true: We loved them so much, and none of this was their fault. We loved each other too, but we decided that we would both be happier living separately.
While our 19-year-old daughter found this situation quite challenging, our 17- and 15-year-old boys seemed to handle the situation with surprising calm.
Finally revealing it felt like a weight had been lifted.
We had agreed privately to separate a few months ago but had waited until the eldest two children had finished their A-levels and GCSE exams before telling them.
If anyone had noticed that we were rarely home at the same time, they never mentioned it. We stopped sharing the bedroom a long time ago.
Looking back, maybe the cracks appeared when I stopped working for a year when the kids were little; Being a bounty hunter wasn’t conducive to family life. While he was pursuing his career as a city attorney, I was ungratefully chasing after the kids. I realized that I was bored and resentful, from my perspective he retained his freedom and spent my days being intellectually challenged in board meetings while mine was spent on trips to the park (kill me now) or dodging dough balls being thrown at Pizza Express.
He would come home after my day and ask, my answer would either be “st” (which seemed ungrateful) or “they are all still alive”. Admittedly, neither are great conversation starters, but as a woman it’s a crime to admit that motherhood isn’t always rewarding. I loved my children, but (whisper) child care is often extremely boring.
One of my first major upsets came when I asked him to come home on time because I was spending a rare night out with the local moms. When he was two hours late due to work pressures, I realized that his work (understandably) took priority over me getting drunk with the girls. It sounds trivial, but at the time it seemed like a lifeline to my old life. I didn’t want to get “drunk” so from now on I was just going to get a sitter. To avoid conflict, I assumed the role of peacemaker and insisted, “I’m fine” to anyone who raised an eyebrow.
Turns out I wasn’t well. When the kids were four, two and one, I had a nervous breakdown. I didn’t want to get out of bed, I had fallen so hard. I wanted pills (every woman I knew was on antidepressants; that’s what moving to the country and quitting your job does for you ladies), but after pouring my heart out to a private psychiatrist, I was diagnosed with “identity loss” and prescribed a pill. A cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) course that I attended religiously for a year. Luckily it worked and gave me some much needed coping mechanisms and some perspective.
He was naturally great at the beginning of our relationship. We met when we were both 28 and flying high in our careers. He was kind, funny, and we bonded. He ticked all the boxes: He would be a good husband, father and life partner. All our friends were getting married… so why didn’t we? After my somewhat wild and fun-filled 20s, I assumed the next chapter of my life would “make sense.” All I wanted was a perfect family life. I was confident that our solid and stable love would endure the distance. And we were happy.
We both came from “broken families,” for want of a better phrase, so we were determined to provide proper Christmases and family holidays for our own children. After our big Hampshire wedding in 2003, the children followed in quick succession. We entered family life in the Green City and I took on the role of “professional (albeit a bit/very angry) mother” while juggling a freelance bounty hunting job. Meanwhile, he worked long hours in the city.
This clear division of roles may seem like the seeds of our marriage going awry, but at the time we were going about our own lives with little friction. Also unifying was the wonderful local friends we made and who became our family. I can say that those friends kept our marriage train on the rails for 15 years. Contented enough, we still arranged embarrassing “date nights” – theatre, dinners and the odd weekend trip. But in reality we were falling apart.
After I was told I had “lost it” during the collapse, I started thinking about my career. Headhunting wasn’t possible in the long run, but I’d always loved fashion, helping style friends and family for events or finding the perfect summer sandals for under £100, for example. I started sharing my research and fashion tips for real women on my blog. Does My Butt Look 40 Years Old In This?. It was the creative outlet I craved and meant I could continue to be financially independent. Being raised by a single mother, it was imposed on me to “never trust a man for money.” I also wanted to contribute to the family pot. I didn’t know it at the time, but most importantly, having this financial independence allowed me to end my marriage later.
Ironically, I know the reason we drifted as a couple was because of my career progression. I knew this deep down and was ashamed to admit it, but I was too selfish to want to do anything about it. If I were fully committed to the future of my marriage, I would make changes. I would be lying if I didn’t admit to having some disturbing thoughts about divorce. But I would immediately put them back in the box and tell myself that if everything was 80 percent okay, then that would be it. it was Good. When that 80 percent reached 70, then 60, I would say to myself, “at least he’s not in a relationship.” This seems like a strange but common reason why women justify staying.
We lost our nanny/maid when the lockdown started (yes, I realize how spoiled this makes me sound, but I justified it because I could pay someone to do jobs I hated and would rather spend my time working). That’s when our family problems increased. She and the kids loved staying at home, but I was like a bird in a cage. Spending so much time thinking and so much time at home has made me ridiculously narrow-minded. To the point where I really didn’t like the person I was going to become.
It felt sad to see our relationship reduced to fights about dishwashers and trash cans. A recent disagreement about laundry (tell me you didn’t go there?) suddenly made me realize: Did we really want to spend another 20 years like this? This was my lightbulb moment; Pandora’s box was opened and I could never close it again.
I suddenly realized that neither of us deserved to spend the next 30-40 years compromising, that life was too short and we needed to sit down and “chat”.
“We both deserve the chance to be truly happy,” I said, but right now I was making her miserable.
It was never an easy conversation, but even though things weren’t great, we hadn’t gotten to the point where we wanted to stick a fork in each other’s eyes.
Even though we knew it was over, we went to couples therapy to make sure we had absolutely exhausted all options. And no matter how well-intentioned you are, things can get ugly when only two people are communicating, having a third person there really helps with an amicable separation.
At the end of therapy, we decided to divorce. I would be lying if I said it was easy those months waiting for the kids to finish their exams, but we spent as little time together at home as possible. I then moved into the place I was renting in central London in June 2023. We agreed that I would keep our Suffolk at home while he stayed at the family home. Yes, it was painful, but honestly, I’m so glad we finally made the leap.
I was happy to leave Kent, where I felt judged for “dating” and being “selfish.” I was shocked and truly saddened to see how other women, especially women, left their marriages. It’s okay if your husband is mean to you, but it’s like my separation is holding up a mirror to their relationship. And if they don’t like what’s projected, they get upset.
Since then, I’ve lost count of the number of women who have approached me and asked how to tell when you’re ready to leave your husband. I always say, if you have to ask, you’re probably not ready. Yet. Finances kept the women busy, and I appreciate that things were made easier for us because I was independent, the kids were older, and we split everything 50-50.
Of course sometimes I feel vulnerable or guilty about my choices, I wouldn’t be human if I had no doubts. However, wanting happiness is not “selfish”. Also, a marriage that lasts 20 years and we are still in an amicable relationship is not considered a “failure.” I would call that a huge success, thank you.
When I say I’m divorced, I’m usually met with the response, “I’m so sorry.” Please don’t be upset! This is insulting. We made a better decision for our family. Or people tilt their heads and say “but how are the kids?” Really?”
The kids are fine, thank you. In fact, they probably have a better relationship with their father and each other because I can’t always act as a buffer. All five of us are happier than before and work together to make sure we have family time for birthdays and Christmas.
I’ve met someone else since the break and my ex has a new partner too. We are truly happy for each other. At 51, I now understand that life is a series of chapters and my marriage is a chapter that is ending and will make room for exciting new chapters, no matter what.
Created by Kat Farmer Does My Butt Look 40 Years Old? (@doesmybumlook40) and Getting the Podcast Been There (@gotthepodcast) with Marianne Jones
As told to Susanna Galton