I give R an ultimatum: 'It's the drink or me'

"It's the drink or me. I can't do this any more," I say to R as I lean against the mantelpiece, hand on hip, wondering how I have ended up in a down-at-heel, south London version of Dynasty. "For chrissakes. Do what any more? I'm not drinking," R says.

"I know. I'm just saying. It's something I've been thinking about, and it's important that you know," I reply.

I'm telling him. There. It's been said. But within seconds, this certainty is replaced with a queasy sensation: now that I've made an ultimatum, I'll have to stick to my guns.

The house is quiet, the children are asleep and R and I are standing in the half-light of our messy living room. What is keeping us from holding each?other?

I've accepted that it's hard to trust R, especially since his relapse a few weeks ago, but I really struggle with the notion that I should carry on life as normal and detach with love.

In my support group, a woman once said: "Don't worry about the individual relapses. If an addict tries to hide the fact that they are drinking again, then you won't need to do any sort of detective work at all. Within a short time, it will be obvious. Everything will start to fall apart." The only time I've heard this said before was when someone described the behaviour of a serial killer. Hardly edifying stuff.

Staring at the living-room wall, wondering what to say next, I recall a picture that my sister once had hanging on her wall. It said: "Don't Worry. Everything that happens happens mostly without you." I liked it a lot. I sound the words out in my head, like a spiritual mantra. If R is drinking, then why is it any of my business? No amount of worry or intervention will stop him doing what he was going to do anyway.

In the past when I've snooped into R's private affairs, it's only landed me in one place: misery. R never stooped this low, and it makes me feel ashamed. On the occasions I confirmed my beliefs that he had been drinking again, I would usually fall into a pattern of fretting, shouting and accusing. R would continue to slide further into his secret world that I was no closer to understanding, despite having gathered all the evidence.

This time, I have refrained from doing certain things that I did before: I haven't rifled through R's bag to see if I can uncover a drained bottle of rum, or slipped out all the credit cards in his wallet to see if an empty wrap of cocaine is wedged into one of the pockets. Or receipts: I've been known to painstakingly unfold crumpled pieces of faded till paper, just to see if he's been spending in the pub. I looked for the date, and the amount. Over ￡50 per transaction and I called it a binge, but I'm not sure how or why I set these silly limits.

For now, I go for simple instinct: R's behaviour is the most significant indicator of this, but my changeable moods – affectionate and loving one day, and angry and vindictive the next – won't reveal his best side to me.

As I move to draw the curtains, R yawns loud and wide. I walk quickly over to where he is standing, ready to catch his significant out breath. I go in for a kiss, so my sudden movement has a purpose. And just as I guessed, I can't tell if what I'm smelling is alcohol or something else (he chews menthol gum regularly).

I imagine that the "not knowing" is the thing that is driving me mad, but in reality the knowing might be worse.

R cottons on to what I'm doing almost immediately, and does not fall into the comfort of my kiss. Instead, he places his hands just above my elbows and stands back, eyes directed straight at mine. "You have really got to stop this. When you feel anxious, try to avoid the things that will hurt you. Rather look for the things that will help you," he says.

"I'm trying," I say after him, as he leaves the room.

R goes to bed early and I sit in the kitchen, looking at flights on the computer. I want to take the children to see my parents. I love it where they live: the?countryside, freedom and constant company. I need a break from R – some physical distance – and I know he would relish some space away from me too: time to live without the pressure of attempting to be good and responsible at all times of the day.

When I'm hundreds of miles across the sea, not even my keen sense of smell will be able to detect whether R's had a drink or not, and that will do us all the world of good.

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R is now using the pregnancy as an excuse to drink

The time between finding out that I'm pregnant and waiting for the abortion is strange and disorienting: I'm not sure of anything. I can handle the physical changes (already my boobs are sore and heavy and I'm suffering from nausea) – but it's my mind that's exhausted. I play the What if? game on a loop in my head.

What if having the abortion makes me feel as sad and rotten as it did the first time, 15 years ago? What if another child would prove to be a positive move, a wonderful addition to our chaotic household of five? What if we go ahead with the pregnancy and I find myself bringing up four children alone, while R falls further into addiction?

He calls me as I'm in the park with the children.

"I've been thinking, a lot," he says. I?can hear drink seeping into in his speech.

"We can have this baby … I'd sort of like this baby. The others made me so happy. And I love you."

Although I am reluctant to stay on the line because he is drunk, I do. It is?the simple sentiment that love will conquer all and the "we" that suck me in, make me feel temporarily part of a?team. I am so easily charmed.

"Are you there?" he says.

"Yes, I'm here." I reply, half through gritted teeth and half through a smile.

If R simply drank, but was not an alcoholic, this would be a rather touching conversation – pissed husband calls wife to tell her to keep baby because he loves her and everything will be all right. But I have to burn the imaginary Hollywood film script, and get real. "You're drunk, aren't you?" I ask. I wonder if this is the first time since the "last" time, or whether he's been hiding other transgressions from me.

"Do you really think that this hasn't affected me? I'm finding it incredibly painful," R says in defence, his voice turning at once from sweet to spikey.

Of course I realise, but I remind myself that he is now using the pregnancy as an excuse to drink. In the past, he has blamed work, stress, lack of money, upbringing and even my behaviour. All of these things – in his delusional mind – make him drink.

"I don't want to talk now. I'm with the children, and you're pissed."

I push the buggy containing our youngest with force. I am angry that even R's addiction has not drowned my love for him, and the possible love for a?future child together. I look back on the days that I gave birth to my children as the happiest of my life.

My sister took a photograph seconds after our last child was born, an image of triumph and joy. I'm on our bedroom floor cradling our wrinkly, waxy baby and looking up at R, who is kneeling beside me, arm around my shoulders with unquestionable love in his eyes. I've never seen smiles so wide. I just remember R saying: "You did it my love. You did it." We cried. Our baby couldn't have been more wanted at that very moment. But successful marriages are not built on exceptional days. The memories of ecstatic times are important, but they also add a honeyed glow to periods that might not be so wonderful. I have to cast aside memory now, to exist in the present. I understand that if I did have another child, the added pressure would be immense. My relationship with R is on the brink of collapse, and another life would add to the strain.

On the way up the hill to home, I?receive a text from R: "I'm coming back now. I left the office at lunch."

I certainly don't want him home, drunk. "Please stay away," I text.

"Stop being such a heartless cow. I'm trying to be kind and you're throwing it back in my face. This is about the baby," R texts back.

This is hurtful and unfair. R may be drunk, but the bite from his accusation is deep. I should turn off my phone or ignore any further texts. But I don't. I?feel compelled to tell him once again to stay away. "I'm locking the door when I get home. You're behaving like an idiot," I text.

"Bitch," he replies.

I switch off my phone. I'm pained by his malevolence and crude use of language. Our lack of respect for one another has come so rapidly. I replace the joyous photograph in my head – us with our newborn – with a snapshot of him at a party last year: drunk, limp and blinded by drink. How quickly my thoughts of love can change to anger, hatred and despair.

Before I go to bed, I lock the front door from the inside, certain that, despite my best efforts to keep R away, he will come tapping at some point. If?he knocks for long enough I know, from previous occasions, that I'll probably buckle and let him in.

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