“My patience with you and your whiny children has grown thin!” he shouted, his face twisted with anger.
My life with Andrew began as a fairy tale. We met at university in Reading; I was studying literature and he was on a physics course. Our relationship was steeped in romance: Andrew would write me poetry, bring me flowers, and slip sweet notes under my dormitory door. I was madly in love and believed it would last forever. Yet, this fairy tale soon turned into a nightmare that shattered my heart and nearly broke me.
Immediately after we graduated, we married. Not long after, our son Oliver was born, followed by our daughter Lily three years later. I was overflowing with happiness, but with the arrival of our second child, Andrew began to change. The tender, caring man I once loved seemed to vanish. He stopped helping around the house, became rude, and soon developed a troubling relationship with alcohol. His eyes, once warm, grew cold and unrecognizable.
Whenever I attempted to talk to him, he would explode:
“Leave me be! Your duty is the children and the household! Stay out of my way!”
We lived like strangers for six months. Andrew would come home drunk and furious, sometimes not returning at all. He offered no explanations for his absences, and I was too fearful to inquire, dreading another confrontation. Our intimacy faded away — we became mere roommates in the same home. I reminisced about his poems, our starry walks, and cried myself to sleep each night, hoping he would return to the man he once was. But with every passing day, that hope dimmed.
One evening, as I was preparing dinner and the children played nearby, the door swung open violently, and Andrew stormed in, his face flushed with rage. His eyes burned with a crazed fire.
“I’m fed up with you! And your snivelling children! There’s someone else! I’m leaving!” he screamed, hurling anything he could find — plates, books, even a chair — in my direction.
I shielded the children, my heart pounding with terror. Oliver and Lily cried, pressing against me. With trembling hands, I dialed my mother-in-law. “Please don’t call the police,” she begged. “We’re on our way.” I agreed, but inside, I was screaming with pain and fear.
When my mother-in-law arrived with her husband, I learned the truth that turned my world upside down. In a decade of marriage, I had no idea that Andrew suffered from bipolar disorder and serious mental health issues. His parents had hidden this from me, fearing I would leave. They had secretly taken him to doctors and filled him with medication, but lately, Andrew had refused to take them. His outbursts, anger, and drunkenness often blurred the line between reality and his fantasies.
I was in shock. How had I not noticed? Deeply entrenched in motherhood, I excused his harshness as fatigue or a difficult personality. His family stayed silent, allowing me to live in my illusion. That night, I packed our belongings, took the children, and went to stay with a friend. It was daunting — starting anew with two little ones in tow — but I could not remain in that hell.
Divorce became inevitable. I filed the paperwork, and soon enough, we parted ways. But within six months, Andrew remarried. Rather than support me, my mother-in-law accused me: “You’ve abandoned my sick boy! How could you?” Her words stung, but I refused to let them break me. I fought for the children, for our future, and I endured.
Now, I live for Oliver and Lily. We rent a small flat, and I work hard, feeling grateful every day for my freedom. Sometimes I wonder: why didn’t I leave sooner? Love had blinded me, and hope had trapped me. Andrew is a memory now, but his words still echo in my mind. I have no regrets about my decision, but the pain of betrayal and deceit will linger for a long time.