One evening he stormed through the door and shouted: “I can’t stand the kids’ noise and your constant nagging anymore!”

Id been married for ages. I first met my husband back at Oxford. I didnt really date anyone else I chose him, and thats how it stayed. I suppose you could say I was one of those old-fashioned types who stay loyal and dont waste a glance on another man.

We tied the knot in our third year, barely out of our teens and clueless about the world. Im not sure if what we felt was truly love, but perhaps it was we managed to share a home for so many years. Somehow, the rest of our course looked up to us as the model couple, though several others had also paired off. I suppose it was because we never wavered, no matter the row, crisis, or hiccup.

By our fourth year, we had a son. We didnt drop out plenty of lecturers understood our circumstances, and we never took the mickey. Through grit and sheer will, we finished at university, earned our degrees, and celebrated that milestone arm-in-arm. My husband always pitched in, sharing the chores and the chaos.

I never thought about anyone else he was my perfect man, my other half. Together we were seamless, rarely at odds. In such harmony, it felt natural for happy children to follow, so after two years we decided to try for a daughter.

Why not? I had a doting husband, a healthy, boisterous little boy surely a daughter would make our family complete.

Anyone would have thought I was the luckiest woman in Britain. My husband cared for me and always lent a hand. Even working odd shifts, hed come home to play with the kids, letting me have an hour for myself. Nothing warned me that things might go wrong, until, out of nowhere, I saw him beginning to drift away.

He started staying late at work, picking at everything I did. Short-tempered, snapping over nothing. One evening, when I asked, How are you? he retorted that my job was to cook roast dinners, wipe the childrens noses, and make sure he was pleased at night.

With talk like that, I began dreading mealtimes and avoiding our bedroom. I hoped hed look at himself in the mirror and start to change, but instead things only worsened. Soon he was drinking far too much, vanishing through the night. The father who once nurtured our children was replaced by someone unrecognisable and cruel.

One evening, he strode into the house and shouted at me:

Im sick of this house, the kids screeching, your tacky old jogging bottoms. Ive never been proud of you you never bother with lipstick, never smarten up for me. I cant take you anywhere, you look a mess. All you care about is money, but God forbid anyone asks what I want for once!

Desperate, I called my mother-in-law. She stuck up for her son, begging me not to go for a divorce. I had no choice. I packed up what little I could, took the kids, and rented a little flat just outside Cambridge. A friend helped me get my daughter into nursery, and I picked up a cleaning job on the side. Life is hard really hard but at least I know no one here will raise a hand to us.

It wasnt until the court hearings that I learned what hed hidden all these years: my husband suffered from serious mental health issues. His parents kept it from me, hoping Id be a good fit for their troubled son quiet and undemanding. His mother had even whisked him off to Germany for treatment, but it did no good. Medications kept him stable for a while, but the damage was inevitable. Yes, I do feel for him. But I cant go on sharing a home with a man whos so unpredictable. My only hope is that his illness isnt passed to our children, so they can build a life more peaceful than mine.