My husband said he could manage without me, but I couldn’t without him. Well, we’ll see about that.
After eight years of marriage, I, Emily, finally shook off the chains of stereotypes hammered into me for years by my mother, grandmother, and mother-in-law. They insisted a good wife was a woman who could do it all: work, raise children, keep the house spotless, cook delicious meals, and ensure her husband always had a pressed shirt, a full stomach, and a smile. I tried to live up to that ideal, but my husband, James, never appreciated my efforts. He took it for granted, barely noticing how exhausted I was. I was tired—tired of being invisible, tired of carrying the weight alone.
The women in my family were my examples. Mum, Gran, my older sister Charlotte—all perfect homemakers who lived for their families. Mum worked at a school, came home to cook lunch, then marked papers until midnight. No one called it heroic—it was just her “duty as a woman.” Dad still doesn’t know where his socks are. Mum brings him his slippers, sets the table, serves dinner. I’ve never seen him pick up a hoover or a mop. Yes, he worked hard, came home late, but he earned well. Thanks to him, Charlotte and I both got flats. Mum could’ve quit working but believed her contribution mattered. That’s how Gran raised her, and how she raised us.
Charlotte married five years before me and mirrored Mum perfectly. She trained as a teacher, had two kids, and turned her home into a showroom of order. Whenever I visited, the place buzzed—kids tidy, house gleaming, fresh baked goods on the table. After my wedding, I dreamed of the same. I wanted to be the perfect wife, doing everything myself. But James, unlike Dad or Charlotte’s husband, didn’t earn much. He often came home late, but his salary barely covered our needs. I reassured him, telling him he was talented and would climb the ladder. Meanwhile, I ran myself ragged, spinning like a hamster on a wheel.
James never lifted a finger at home. Before marriage, he lived with his parents, and his mum, Margaret, shielded him from “women’s work.” In her eyes, a man’s job was fixing things and lifting heavy objects—except James had a bad back, so that was out. In eight years, we had one renovation, and even then, we hired a crew. I killed myself trying to keep everything perfect: cleaning, cooking, laundry, ironing. I wanted to be that “good wife,” but my energy drained faster each day.
Two years ago, I had our second child. The pregnancy and birth were rough; I could barely move. But instead of supporting me, James started complaining—about bland soup, creased shirts, dusty shelves. Exhausted, with a newborn in my arms, I struggled to keep up. Mum and Margaret chimed in, insisting I wasn’t doing anything extraordinary—just a woman’s lot. I believed them, even as the weight of their expectations crushed me.
Everything changed when our seven-year-old son, Oliver, refused to tidy his toys, declaring, “That’s girls’ work—Mum’ll do it.” He was parroting his father. Something inside me snapped. On a better day, I might’ve brushed it off, but fury and despair overwhelmed me. I screamed, sobbed, unable to stop. It wasn’t just a meltdown—it was the cry of a soul tired of being invisible. It took me an hour to calm down, but I knew: this couldn’t go on.
That evening, I tried talking to James. Calmly, I explained how I was drowning, how I needed his help—not to do everything, just to share the load: groceries, watching the kids so I could shower, maybe hoover once a week. He cut me off: “What can’t you handle? The kids? The cleaning? The cooking? I’m supporting you while you’re on maternity leave, and you want me to do your job? What’ll you do—laze on the sofa?” His words cut deep. He didn’t listen, didn’t care. By the end, he snapped, “I’ll manage fine without you. You’re the one who can’t cope alone.” Well, we’ll see.
From that day, I was done. I went back to work part-time, picking up English tutoring again. Our home became a battleground. I stopped waiting on James—no cooking, no laundry, no ironing. I made meals just for me and the kids, washed their clothes. If he wanted to live without me? Let him try. Mum and Charlotte refused to help with the kids, accusing me of wrecking my marriage. “What nonsense—starving your husband! He’s right, you brought this on yourself. Worked, kept house, and you’re still standing,” they said. “You’re a woman—endure it. That’s your lot,” Mum added. To her, it was normal. To me, it was humiliation.
My friend Lily, a former colleague, stepped up. She minds the baby while I tutor. Oliver’s old enough to stay home alone now. We’ve lived like this for two months. I won’t go back to being a servant. It’s hard, but I refuse to spend my life as a cleaning and cooking machine. I’m teaching Oliver responsibility; the baby will learn there’s no “men’s” or “women’s” work. I hope James wakes up. If not, I’m ready to leave. Better alone than a ghost in my own home. My fate isn’t to please—it’s to live with dignity.
