I always liked to say that the first thing that drew me to my wife was her rapier wit. She was arch and funny, and could be merciless, someone you wouldn’t lightly cross. I used to find that incredibly attractive. But over the years, I’ve become the exclusive target of that wit, and I’m no longer laughing. Rarely will she pass up an opportunity to take me down a peg or two, to let me know all of the many ways in which I disappoint her. I’m not sure I like what this implies: that she doesn’t like me any more, and that maybe, even, she’s come to hate me.

I suppose we’ve been on a downward slide for some time now. I only recognise it now because, when in company, I see friends exchanging uncomfortable glances at the way she addresses me, her lack of affection palpable. She critiques my social skills, points out my poor dress sense, and announces to all how I’m going bald, just in case anyone had failed to notice. I used to be able to shrug this off, but it’s harder when I see friends wince, then withdraw.

In the early days, I was the breadwinner, working a demanding job that required me to maintain its upkeep, on my phone and laptop, out of hours; weekends were complicated. But I didn’t hear much resentment from my wife, who enjoyed the benefits that came with a healthy salary. After we had children, she took voluntary redundancy from a job she never much liked in the first place and became, in one sense at least, my mother: housewife, just as I had become my father: battling the rush hour to get home for dinner safe in the knowledge that a hot meal would be awaiting me upon my arrival.

If I’m honest, I rather liked this arrangement. She didn’t. As the children grew, she became increasingly dissatisfied with her lot. I lost my job and was forced to take a lower paid one. She returned to the workforce, and expected me – not unreasonably, I know – to help out more in the house. I wish I could say I did this willingly.

We mostly only interact these days in a familial setting – the kitchen table, the mess of mealtimes. Television we watch in an exhausted silence, and upstairs she falls asleep quickly – before, she likes to say (often to friends), I start to snore. I’ve begun to notice my daughter speak to me with a similarly sharp tongue, a chip off the old block, and an expert at passive aggression at 14.

I joined a gym recently, swimming every morning, working out every night, where I burn off steam and, I realise, some anxiety too. I’ll admit I do wonder at times whether divorce looms in our future. Despite our situation, I’m not keen. At my age, living in a studio flat holds scant appeal. For now, we exist in this uneasy stasis. We function, but dysfunctionally. I try to be nicer, more amenable, a better man. I try.

We got a dog during lockdown, her idea. I had one rule, that the dog wasn’t allowed on our bed. That mandate lasted barely a month. He positions himself up by the pillows, between us. He squirms so much that I’m often pushed right to the very edge.

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