Six years ago I sat down and told my husband we were separating. The resentment had become too much. I wanted to scratch his eyes out every time he walked into a room. I was hot with rage and I had no idea why, but I knew that I couldn’t carry on.
I had it all figured out. I’d even rented a flat nearby for three months so that we could ‘bird nest’ when it came to child care for our two daughters. My husband was blindsided. Sure, marriage had turned out to be harder - a lot harder - than any romcom had led us to believe, but it hadn’t occurred to him that it would end in separation or divorce. He asked me whether I would go back to couple’s therapy and I very reluctantly agreed.
