My husband is a prisoner of other people’s demands—the drama of our married life.
I’m at my breaking point. Three years ago, I married Oliver, thinking I’d found a partner. Instead, I got a man who’s everyone’s servant—except ours. He’s spineless, and it’s tearing us apart.
Oliver is the kind of man people treat like a doormat. At work, at home, even with friends—he’s the first one they call when they need a favour, but the last they remember when it’s time for credit. It’s unbearable. I’m sick of watching people take advantage of his kindness while he just lets them.
His job in a small town near Manchester is no better. His bosses act like he’s their personal fixer. Night shift? Send Oliver! A last-minute business trip to Birmingham? Oliver’s your man! Covering for someone on holiday? He’ll do it. But when bonuses or promotions come up? Suddenly, he’s invisible. Once, they handed out holiday vouchers—guess who got left out? Yep, Oliver.
I’ve tried talking to him—telling him he needs to value himself and his time. He nods, says he gets it, but the second someone calls with a “quick favour,” he’s gone. He drops everything for them while leaving me waiting. It’s led to so many fights. Oliver’s not a bad man—he’s caring, doesn’t drink, loves me. But his weakness is like a knife in our marriage. Without it, we could be happy.
His so-called friends are another headache. I don’t know why he still calls them that. They’re always borrowing money, asking for lifts, or needing help with odd jobs. Meanwhile, we spent three years saving for a used Volkswagen, denying ourselves everything—only for it to become a free taxi for everyone but us.
The tools he bought for our house? Gone. “Can I borrow your drill?” “Need your screwdriver for a sec”—and poof, never seen again. I tell him to call and ask for them back, but he just mutters, “It’s awkward. They’ll remember.” Spoiler: they don’t. And the money he’s lent? They take it like it’s nothing, but paying back? Not a chance.
The worst? His family. His mum, Margaret, runs the show like a military officer. His dad? Just as meek as Oliver—no opinions, no pushback. His sister luckily moved away, but that just left Oliver to pick up all the slack. His mum’s always needing something—a lift to her garden shed, help clearing storage, fixing a fence for his cousin. Never mind that *we* might have plans. The second Margaret calls, Oliver’s out the door.
Once, he even missed our anniversary dinner because he had to drive some distant aunt to a garden centre for plants. I was left sitting alone in the restaurant while he apologised over the phone: “Mum needed help. I’ll be there soon.” If I’d known he’d be this much of a pushover, I’d have thought twice about marrying him.
I’m exhausted from fighting for *us*—for our time, our car, our life. I helped pay for that car, but I still take the bus to work because Oliver’s always off running errands for someone else. It feels like I married a man who belongs to everyone but me. His kindness isn’t a virtue; it’s a curse.
But yesterday broke me. I’m four months pregnant. We waited so long for this baby, dreamed about it. We were at the clinic when—ring, ring—Margaret called. She *urgently* needed Oliver to bring her some boxes to the countryside. And he *left*. Just like that, walked out, leaving me alone in the hospital. I took a cab home, crying the whole way.
That evening, he came back mumbling apologies—something about how you can’t say no to his mum. But I was done. Everyone comes before me. Where do I even rank? His weakness is destroying us.
So I gave him an ultimatum: Either he changes, puts *us* first, or I file for divorce. I won’t be treated like an afterthought. I need a husband, not a doormat. I don’t mind helping people in real need, but being at everyone’s beck and call? No.
And what happens when the baby comes? Am I supposed to do everything alone? I want to believe Oliver can change, but my patience is wearing thin. I’m tired of being married to a man who can’t say “no.”
