17October2025
Dear Diary,
Im home after a grueling twelvehour stretch at the office in Manchester, and Emily my wife of four years is waiting at the kitchen door with that familiar look of weary patience.
Anything in the fridge? she asks, eyes halfclosed.
I nod, still halfawake. The fridge is nothing more than a few halfempty containers and a lonely pot of leftover stew. She sighs, her fingers hovering over her laptop as she tries to keep the spreadsheets from spilling onto the floor.
Did you open the fridge? I ask, trying to sound casual.
Yeah, she replies, a hint of irritation slipping through. There are a few pots, some containers.
The tension from the mornings conference calls starts to seep into my voice. I can feel the fatigue from the days deadline grinding against the thin veneer of our evening routine.
Did you think of heating it up? she snaps. Do I have to be the one to do that?
I stare at the pile of reports on my screen, the endless rows of numbers echoing my own exhaustion. Why should I? Ive just come home exhausted. Cant you at least bring a plate to the table?
Emily flips her laptop toward me, the screen flooded with charts and chat windows. Im working too, love. From home, but Im still working. Im tired as well, but I managed to cook dinner. All you have to do is reheat it and serve yourself. Is that really so hard?
My voice cracks on the last word. I hadnt expected to be on the brink of losing my temper.
Emily shuffles out of the doorway, muttering under her breath, Shes become so cold lazy she doesnt love me, doesnt value me.
I slip on my headphones, crank up the music, and let the beats drown out her words. The report lines blur; my mind drifts back to when things were different.
Back then, Emily loved to cook. It was her little sanctuary after a ninetofive job at a call centre. We used to joke that she could charm me with a pot of bolognese. On our third date, the restaurant wed booked cancelled at the last minute because of a system glitch. Emily suggested we cook at home instead.
She served me her homemade lasagna, crusty garlic bread, and a fresh salad. I sat at her tiny kitchen table, mouth full, eyes rolling with delight.
I think Im falling in love, I confessed, and she laughed.
When I moved into her flat in Salford, she kept cooking every night: Frenchstyle roast, slowcooked lamb, elaborate soups, weekend pies. I grew accustomed to her meals, so much so that I stopped noticing how much time and effort she poured into each dish. At the time, she worked a regular ninetofive, exhausted, yet she still rose to the stove because she knew I was waiting.
Now the tables have turned. My career has taken off; Im a senior project manager, working remotely most days, with a promotion that brought bigger responsibilities and tighter deadlines. I barely have the energy to make a simple supperperhaps some boiled new potatoes with grilled chicken, spaghetti with meatballs, or a quick vegetable stirfry. Thats when Emilys frustration boiled over, first as hints, then as outright accusations.
The past two months have felt like a nightmare. A massive client project landed on my desk, promising a hefty bonus if we delivered on time. I was glued to my laptop, flying to the office for impromptu meetings, pulling twelvehour days. Emily grew increasingly dissatisfied: The house isnt clean enough. The food is too simple. You never spend time with me. She demanded restaurantlevel dishes, threw tantrums over an unwashed pan, and I, already on edge, snapped back.
Eventually the project was handed in. I felt like a squeezed lemonevery fibre of my being aching. I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, unable even to blink without feeling the weight of exhaustion.
From the hallway came Emilys footsteps; shed just arrived from work. The fridge is empty. Whats for dinner? she asked, voice flat.
I looked at her slowly. There are some frozen dumplings in the freezer, I replied.
I dont want dumplings! I want baked fish with vegetables, she retorted, her tone sharp.
The very thought of getting out of bed felt like a physical blow. My body refused to move, my brain refused to cooperate.
Why dont you order something? They can bring whatever you want, I suggested.
Then why did I marry you? she shot back, her voice rising.
She leaned forward, eyes narrowing. So that I could be fed by delivery? Cooking is a wifes duty, isnt it? Youve become lazy. Ive tolerated this long enough, but its gone too far!
Something inside me clicked. Fatigue turned into a sudden, fierce anger. I jumped up, voice booming, Im not obligated! Wheres the rulebook? Who signed it?
She yelled, Im fed on nonsense! Im sick of this! I shouted back, Then cook it yourself! The kitchen is right there! Im not stopping you! She countered, Its your duty! Its a womans job! You must look after your husband! I retorted, And Im tired! Ive been swamped with work for two months! You never even wash your own plate! Why should I be the only one caring for you? You just sit and wait for food!
She flushed red. Because Im a man! I earn the money! I jabbed my finger to my chest. I earn too! Not less than you! Yet you treat me like a servant! She screamed, Youre a lousy wife! You cant look after the family! My fury cooled into a cold, steady resolve.
Then find someone else! Find a woman wholl serve you. Im done. She was stunned. What? I said, moving past her to the wardrobe, pulling out her suitcase and tossing her belongings in.
Pack up and go. Right now. I told her, voice firm.
She gasped, Emily, what are you doing? I replied, Leave. Im fed up being your maid. I want to be a partner, not a kitchen hand. If you cant see that, were not meant for each other.
She tried to argue, but I stood my ground and closed the door behind her. I wasnt going to tolerate being treated as a servant any longer.
A week passed. Emily called daily, sent messages, begged for forgiveness, promised to change. I didnt answer. I needed space to sort my thoughts.
I reflected on how she never offered to help with chores, how she took my care for granted, how she expected me to be at her beck and call simply because I was her husband. It hit me hard: she was leaning on me, using me, and didnt even realise it.
When she finally showed up with a bouquet, I took a breath. Im filing for divorce. I dont need you anymore. She stared, bewildered. But why? I promised Id change! I said, I dont need promises. I needed a husband, not a servant. Thats a different thing.
The divorce was swift. The flat was my own before the marriage, so there was nothing to split. Emily moved back in with her parents. I was alone, and surprisingly, lighter.
Now I cook again, but only for myself. I roast a duck with apples just because I fancy it, I try intricate desserts because theyre fun, and when Im drained after work, I order a pizza and eat it straight from the box on the sofa. No one judges me, no one demands anything, and that feels wonderful.
Lesson learned: partnership, not ownership, is the foundation of a marriage. When respect disappears, love cant survive. Ill carry that truth forward.
