I’m 26 Years Old and My Wife Says I Have a Problem I Don’t Want to Admit

I’m twenty-six, and my wife keeps telling me I’ve got an issue I refuse to admit.
She says it every time I quit my job or get the sack.
According to her, it’s not normal that the longest I’ve held any job is six monthsand she’s right.
Sometimes I last a month, sometimes only two weeks, sometimes I can’t even finish the probation period.
I’ve worked all sortsmaintenance, cleaning, street sweeping, scrubbing toilets, hauling boxes in warehouses.
I always start off eager, but after a few days it all weighs heavy on me: my body aches, my head feels foggy.
It’s not just the exhaustion.
It’s the shame.
I never finished school, dropped out just before my A-levels.
I’ve never gone back.
Whenever they hand me a hi-vis vest, broom or a mop, I feel out of place.
I look at my co-workersresigned, going through the motions without complaintand deep down I tell myself this can’t be my life.
Then I start arriving late, slacking off, finding excuses to skip shifts.
Until one day, they call me into the office and tell me not to bother coming back.
My wife just can’t understand.
She’s worked at a supermarket for four yearsit’s not much, but it’s steady.
She knows exactly what she’ll be paid every month.
When I come home unemployed yet again, she looks at me with frustration and fatigue.
She says, “It’s not the work, it’s you.
You can’t stick at anything.” I tell her these jobs aren’t for me, that I’m meant for something else, that I wasn’t born to scrub toilets my whole life.
That only makes her angrier.
She insists I finish school, retrain, get some qualifications.
She tells me no one will hire me for anything ‘better’ if I haven’t even got GCSEs.
I always say I’ll do it, but the months pass and I never sign up.
There’s always some excuse: no money, no time, will do it later.
The truth is, I’m terrified of going back to school as an adult, of sitting next to kids younger than me, feeling like I’ve fallen behind.
At home, it’s become routine.
We argue about the same thing, again and again.
She says I live in dreams, that I talk a good game but never act.
I tell her she’s given up, that she’s used to just scraping by instead of actually living.
Sometimes we shout at each other.
Sometimes we don’t speak for days.
I go out searching for work, CV folded in my pocket, coming back defeated when they tell me, “We’ll be in touch.”
Worst of all, I really do dream.
I dream of having my own business, of not relying on anyone, of not being ashamed of my work uniform.
I dream of waking early for something that’s mine, not for orders from someone else.
But dreams don’t pay the rent or put dinner on the table.
She reminds me of that every day.
Is there really something wrong with me that I refuse to see, or do I just have the right to hope for something bigger?