**Diary Entry**
He behaves horribly, a man riddled with small-town insecurities, yet I can’t bring myself to leave him.
When my marriage fell apart, it felt like the ground had vanished beneath me. The divorce was a catastrophe—I was certain I’d never crawl out of that darkness. The only lifeline was my job. I clung to it desperately. My parents, friends, colleagues—they all tried to help, though Mum and Dad seemed to suffer more than me, watching me unravel. After a year or two, I began to piece myself back together, slowly remembering the woman I’d been before the wreckage.
And then Connor stormed into my life. Because of him, I’ve lost everyone who mattered, and now I’m trapped, unsure how to escape. I wasn’t madly in love—no, not at all. But I enjoyed his company. We’d walk along the quay in our little town in Yorkshire. He seemed easygoing, uncomplicated. It was nice inviting him over—he’d fix the leaky tap, tinker with my old car (which I know nothing about), while I made us dinner and we talked about everything.
Maybe I’m just making excuses, but bit by bit, I let Connor into my life. He moved into my Leeds flat, and from then on, everything spiralled. It infuriated me how he never held a job—getting sacked or quitting, always blaming the bosses. His mates were wastrels, loud and shameless, dragging him to the pub, where he’d buy rounds while barely scraping by.
Life with him became unbearable. He’d bring home blokes I’d never met—no warning, no care whether I was up for hosting. If I’d just finished a long shift, there was no thought of whether I had the energy to cook or even make tea. Because of these “guests,” my real friends—the ones who stood by me through the worst—stopped coming around. And on the rare occasion someone did visit, Connor acted like a brute. Even alone, he’d spoil things—snapping at me, making digs, unloading his bitterness.
He never stopped griping about his rotten luck: a childhood in some backwater village near Lincoln, dropping out of trade school without a certificate. And he took it all out on me—glaring like I owed him something, demanding money for fags despite earning none himself. My family and friends all said it: “Claire, he’s using you. Kick him out.” But I dug my heels in, insisting they were wrong. Deep down, I knew the truth—it just hurt too much to admit.
Here’s the odd thing: sometimes I wonder if *I’m* the one using *him*. Yes, he’s insufferable, but without him, I’m terrified of being alone. At 43, options are slim—who’d want a divorced woman with a bruised heart? I can’t stand the thought of a silent flat, just me and the hollow echo of my own footsteps. So I endure. His tantrums, his whinging, the stale stench of lager. At least when he drinks, he doesn’t get violent—just passes out on the sofa, giving me a few hours’ peace.
Why don’t I leave? I ask myself every day. Love? No. That died long ago, if it ever existed. Fear? Yes, probably. Fear of solitude, fear no one else will ever knock at my door. Connor’s a millstone around my neck, yet somehow, I convince myself it’s keeping me afloat. He lashes out, snarling that everyone else is stuck-up, muttering that I’m too “posh” for him. And I say nothing. Just stir his soup, seething inside.
Mum and Dad hardly call now—they’re tired of repeating themselves. Friends vanished like they were never there. It’s just me and him now. Sometimes I watch him dozing in the armchair and think, *Claire, is this all you’re worth?* But I shove the thought away. At least he doesn’t hit me, doesn’t scream in the night—could be worse, right?
Tell me—would *you* stay if you were me? Could you start over at my age? I don’t know the answer. For now, I survive as best I can—with him, with his small-town spite and my quiet despair. Maybe one day, I’ll find the strength to walk away. Or maybe I’ll stay—a prisoner of my own fear and his rotten temper. Time will tell.
