**Thursday, 12th October**
Eight years into our marriage, I finally shook off the weight of expectations that had been drilled into me by Mum, Gran, and even my mother-in-law. They’d always insisted a good wife does it all—works, raises the kids, keeps the house spotless, cooks hearty meals, all while ensuring her husband’s shirts are pressed and his belly full. I tried to live up to it, but my husband, James, barely noticed the effort. He’d grown so used to me handling everything that my exhaustion became invisible to him. I was tired—tired of being unseen, tired of carrying it all alone.
I’d always had my family’s example. Mum, Gran, my older sister Emily—all of them were perfect homemakers, selfless to a fault. Mum taught at the local comprehensive, rushed home to cook lunch, then marked papers till midnight. No one called it heroic—just her “duty.” Dad still doesn’t know where his socks are kept. Mum brings him his slippers, sets the table, serves his dinner. I’ve never seen him so much as pick up a hoover. True, he earned well—enough to buy me and Emily our flats—but Mum insisted on working, convinced her income mattered. Gran had raised her that way, and she raised us the same.
Emily married five years before me and mirrored Mum perfectly. Trained as a teacher, she had two kids and turned her home into a showroom. Every time I visited, the place gleamed; the children were pristine, the air smelled of fresh scones. After our wedding, I wanted that life too. I tried to be the perfect wife. But James, unlike Dad or Emily’s husband, didn’t earn much. He worked late, yet his salary barely covered bills. I’d reassure him—”You’re brilliant, your big break’s coming”—while running myself ragged.
James didn’t lift a finger at home. Before we married, he’d lived with his parents, and his mum, Margaret, had shielded him from “women’s work.” Men, she insisted, should fix things and carry heavy loads—never mind James’s bad back. In eight years, we’d had one proper renovation, and even then, we hired builders. Meanwhile, I killed myself keeping things perfect: cleaning, cooking, laundry, ironing. I wanted to be that “good wife,” but every day drained me a little more.
Two years ago, our second child arrived. The pregnancy was rough, the birth worse. I could barely walk, yet instead of helping, James started nitpicking—the soup was bland, his shirt was creased, the shelves were dusty. Exhausted, with a newborn in my arms, I struggled to keep up. Mum and Margaret both said I was just doing what women do. I believed them, even as I felt myself drowning under their expectations.
Then my seven-year-old, Oliver, refused to tidy his toys. “That’s girl’s work,” he scoffed. “Mum’ll do it.” His father’s words. Something in me snapped. Maybe on another day I’d have shrugged it off, but rage and despair swallowed me whole. I screamed. Sobbed. Couldn’t stop. It wasn’t a tantrum—it was a scream from a soul tired of being ignored. An hour later, I’d calmed, but I knew: this ends now.
That evening, I tried talking to James. Calmly, I explained how crushed I felt, how I needed just a fraction of his help—groceries, watching the kids so I could shower, maybe a weekly hoover. He cut me off. “What’s so hard? The kids? The cleaning? The cooking? I’m keeping us afloat while you’re on leave, and now you want me doing your jobs too? What’ll you do—lounge about?” His words cut deep. He wasn’t listening. Wouldn’t. Finally, he spat, “I’ll manage fine without you. Doubt you’d last a week alone.” Well. We’ll see.
From that day, I quit playing along. I went back to work part-time—tutoring English, like before. The house turned icy. I stopped catering to James: no cooking, no laundry, no ironing. Just meals for me and the kids, their clothes washed. Wanted to manage without me? Let him try. Mum and Emily refused to help with the kids, accusing me of sabotaging our marriage. “What nonsense, starving your husband! He’s right—you’re to blame. We worked, kept house, and coped,” they scolded. “You’re a woman—put up with it. That’s life,” Mum added. To her, it was normal. To me, it was humiliation.
My mate Sarah, from my old teaching job, stepped in. She minds the little one while I tutor. Oliver’s old enough to stay home alone. It’s been two months now. I won’t go back to being a servant. It’s hard, but I refuse to spend my life as a cleaning machine. Oliver’s learning to tidy up; the baby won’t grow up labelling chores by gender. Maybe James will wake up. If not, I’ll leave. Better alone than invisible in my own home. My worth isn’t in pleasing—it’s in living with my head held high.
