Tom’s family flew in for the weekend on Friday. I hated having to share Annie with the people that – in my head at least – are such a threat to Annie and I.

I just wanted to get in bed and snuggle with her instead of having to share her with the enemy.

Tom and I argued on Friday night as he wanted to go out early to the pub with his family; I had to wait until the children were settled with babysitters, so he went ahead and I, much later.

I can’t help but resent him.

If he’d just helped with the children, we’d have been able to go out together; instead, he had another evening to himself while I did all the work.

On Saturday night, he got so drunk that he was incapable of doing anything the next day, so I spent all of Sunday trying to entertain not only the children, but his family, too, while he stayed in bed, getting up just before we were all due to go out for dinner.

He left home before the children and I for that too, wanting to go alone with his family, leaving me to get the children – and myself – ready on my own. By the time we got there, Annie was screaming with hunger, the other children were getting tired and hungry, and we walked in to find Tom and his family huddled together at one end of a table, leaving us to sit on our own, segregated at the other end.

Tom’s only greeting was to tell me how rude it was of me to take so long to get there.

After an hour of single-handedly trying to calm a very unsettled baby, children that were getting over-excited, and still being ignored by Tom and his family – apart from dirty looks from him – I left Annie with Josh, and escaped to the toilets where I broke down crying.

Stemming the tears and ignoring my puffy, red eyes, I faced the humiliation of returning to my table through the busy restaurant and acting as if nothing had happened. He kept his head down and ignored me more.

It was too much.

I hate him.