Of course, 20-year marriages like ours don’t just end over household chore clashes, but it’s often these small, domestic acts that signify the conjugal rot has set in. I’d become the sort of petty person who would purposefully drain the car of petrol and never fill it up, while becoming irrationally irritated by the way he would leave the recycling drawer ajar.

It was the slow creep of my passive aggressive gestures into our daily life that made me realise we needed to call time on our two decades together.

It was a year ago when we had sat down in that same kitchen with our three teenage children and announced our separation. The words we trotted out were clichéd yet real: we loved them very much and none of this was their fault. We loved each other too, but had decided we would both be happier living apart.

Our 19-year-old daughter found the situation quite challenging, while our boys, aged 17 and 15, appeared to handle it with surprising calm.

Finally getting it out in the open felt like a weight had been lifted.

We had privately agreed to split several months earlier, but had waited until the two eldest had finished their A-levels and GCSEs before telling them.

If anyone had noticed us rarely being in the house at the same time they never mentioned it. We’d stopped sharing a bedroom long ago.

With hindsight, the cracks had developed, perhaps, when I stopped working for a year when the children were young – being a headhunter wasn’t conducive to family life. While he continued his career as a City lawyer, I was thanklessly running around after the kids. I realised I was bored and resentful, from my perspective he’d retained his freedom and days spent being intellectually challenged in board meetings while mine were dominated by park trips (kill me now) or dodging hurled dough balls in Pizza Express.

He would come home and ask after my day, my reply was either “s**t” (which seemed ungrateful) or, “well, they’re all still alive”. Admittedly, neither great conversation openers, but as a woman it’s a crime to admit that motherhood isn’t always rewarding. I adored my kids – but (whisper it) childcare is usually deathly boring.

One of my first major niggles arose when I’d asked him to come home on time as I had a rare night out with local mums. When he was two hours late due to work pressures it dawned on me that his job (understandably) took priority over me getting drunk with the girls. It sounds trivial, but at that time it seemed like my lifeline to my old life. I didn’t want to be “stroppy,” so after that I would just book a sitter. I took on the role of the peacemaker to avoid conflict, insisting to anyone who raised an eyebrow “I’m fine.”

As it turned out I wasn’t fine. When the kids were 4, 2 and 1, I had a nervous breakdown. I didn’t want to get out of bed, I was so low. I demanded pills (every woman I knew was on antidepressants – that’s what moving to the country and quitting work does for you, ladies), but after pouring my heart out to a private psychiatrist I was diagnosed with “loss of identity” and prescribed a course of cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) which I religiously attended for a year. Thankfully, it worked, giving me much-needed coping mechanisms and some perspective.

At the beginning of our relationship, naturally, it was wonderful. We met when we were both 28 and flying high in our careers. He was kind, funny and we gelled. He ticked all the boxes: he would be a good husband, father and life companion. All our friends were tying the knot…well, why didn’t we? After my slightly wild and fun-filled 20s I assumed the next chapter of my life would be the “sensible” one. All I had ever wanted was that perfect family life. I felt sure that our solid and steady love would last the distance. And we were happy.

We had both come from “broken homes”, for want of a better phrase, so were determined to give our own children proper Christmases and family holidays. After our big Hampshire wedding in 2003, the children followed in quick succession. We bedded into family life in leafy Kent, with me taking on the role of “professional (if somewhat /very frustrated) mum” whilst juggling freelance headhunting work. Meanwhile, he worked long hours in town.

This clear division of roles might sound like the seed of our marriage going awry, but we got on with our own lives with little friction back then. The brilliant local friends we made – who became our family – also were a glue. I would say those friends kept our marriage train on the tracks for 15 years. We were content enough, we still arranged the cringe-sounding “date nights” – the theatre, dinners, and the odd weekend away. But in reality, we were growing apart.

After being told I was suffering a “loss of self” during my breakdown, I started thinking about my career. Headhunting wasn’t feasible in the long run, but I’d always loved fashion, helping style friends and family for events, or finding them, say, the perfect summer sandals for under £100. I started sharing my research and fashion tips for real women on my blog Does My Bum Look 40 in This? It was the creative outlet I craved and meant I could continue to be financially independent. Having been brought up by a single mum it had been drummed into me “never rely on a man for money”. I also wanted to contribute to the family pot. I didn’t know it at the time, but crucially having this financial independence allowed me to later end my marriage.

I know the growth of my career was, ironically, to blame for the fact we’d drifted as a couple. In my heart I knew this, and I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I was too selfish to want to do anything about it. Had I been fully committed to the future of my marriage, I would have made changes. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that there were some intrusive thoughts about divorce. But I’d quickly put them back in the box, telling myself that if things were 80 per cent fine, then it was fine. When that 80 per cent became 70 and then 60, I’d firmly tell myself “at least he’s not having an affair”. This seems to be a bizarre yet common reason for women to justify staying.

When lockdown hit we lost our nanny/housekeeper (yes I’m aware how spoiled that makes me sound but I justified it by being able to pay for someone to do the jobs I hated, and I would rather have spent my time working). And this is when our domestic niggles amplified. He and the kids loved being housebound, but I was like a caged bird. So much time to think and so much time in the house made me ridiculously petty. To the point that I really didn’t like the person I’d become.

Seeing our relationship boil down to rows about dishwashers and bins felt sad. It was a final disagreement about laundry (tell me you haven’t been there?) that made me suddenly realise: did we really want to spend another 20 years like this? It was my lightbulb moment; Pandora’s box was opened and I couldn’t shut it again.

I suddenly saw that neither of us deserved to spend the next 30 or 40 more years compromising, life was too short and we needed to sit down and have “the chat”.

We both deserved the chance to be really happy, I said, and right now I was making him miserable.

It’s never an easy conversation to have, but whilst things weren’t great, we hadn’t got to the point where we wanted to stick forks in each other’s eyes.

Whilst we knew it was over, we had couples therapy to make sure that we had most definitely exhausted all options. And however well-intentioned you are, when there are just two of you communicating things can get ugly, having a third person there really helps an amicable split.

By the end of therapy we agreed to divorce. I’d be lying if I said those months waiting until the children’s exams were over were easy, but we spent as little time in the house together as possible. Then in June 2023, I moved out to the place I rent in central London. We agreed I would have our Suffolk home, while he hung on to the family house. Yes it was painful, but honestly I am so pleased we finally made that leap.

I was happy to leave Kent where I felt judged for “walking out” and being “selfish”. I am gobsmacked – and really sad – at how women who leave a marriage are treated, especially by other women. It’s fine if your husband did the dirty on you, but it’s as if my separation holds a mirror up to their relationship. And they’re uncomfortable if they don’t like what’s reflected.

I’ve lost count of the women who’ve since come up to me, asking how to know when you’re ready to leave your husband. I always say that if you have to ask, you’re probably not ready. Yet. The finances put women off, and I appreciate that things were made easier for us because I was independent, the kids were older, and we divided everything 50-50.

Of course I sometimes feel vulnerable or guilty about my choices, I wouldn’t be human if I had no doubts. But it’s not “selfish” to want happiness. Nor is a marriage a “failure” if it’s lasted 20 years and we’re still amicable. I would call that a massive achievement, thanks.

When I mention I’m divorced I’m usually greeted with the reply “I’m so sorry”. Please don’t be sorry! It’s insulting. We’ve made a decision that is better for our family. Or people cock their head to one side, saying “but how are the children really?”

The children are more than okay, thank you. In fact, they probably have a better relationship with their dad – and each other – now that I’m not always there to act as a buffer. All five of us are happier than we were before and we are working together to make sure we have family time around birthdays and Christmas.

I have met someone else since the break, and my ex has a new partner, too. We are honestly pleased for each other. At 51 I now realise life is a series of chapters and my marriage was a chapter that came to an end, and will make room for exciting new chapters, whatever they may be.

As told to Susanna Galton