**Diary Entry**
Richard once told me that he could manage perfectly well without me, but I couldn’t survive without him. Well, we’ll see about that.
After eight years of marriage, I, Emily, finally broke free from the chains of old-fashioned expectations that my mother, grandmother, and mother-in-law had drilled into me. They insisted that a good wife was one who could do it all—work, raise children, keep the house spotless, cook delicious meals, all while ensuring her husband always had pressed shirts and a full stomach. I tried to live up to it, but Richard never appreciated the effort. He’d grown used to me handling everything on my own, blind to how exhausted I was. I was tired—tired of being invisible, tired of carrying everything alone.
My family’s example was always in front of me. Mum, Grandma, my older sister Charlotte—they were all flawless homemakers, living solely for their families. Mum worked at a primary school, rushed home to cook lunch, then graded papers until midnight. No one saw it as heroic—just her “duty.” To this day, my dad doesn’t know where his socks are kept. 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. Enough to buy Charlotte and me flats. Mum could’ve quit her job, but she believed her contribution mattered. Grandma raised her that way, and she raised us the same.
Charlotte, my sister, married five years before me and copied Mum’s life exactly. She trained as a teacher, had two children, and turned her home into a showroom of perfection. Whenever I visited, everything was immaculate—kids clean, house gleaming, fresh scones cooling on the counter. After my own wedding, I wanted that too—to be the perfect wife, doing everything myself. But Richard, unlike Dad or Charlotte’s husband, didn’t earn much. He often came home late, but his salary barely covered our bills. I reassured him, called him talented, convinced he’d climb the career ladder eventually. Meanwhile, I ran myself ragged.
Richard never lifted a finger at home. Before marriage, he’d lived with his parents, and his mother, Margaret, shielded him from “women’s work.” She believed men should fix things, do repairs, and carry heavy loads—except Richard had a bad back, so that excuse was out. In eight years, we hired professionals for our one renovation. Meanwhile, I broke my back keeping everything flawless—cleaning, cooking, laundry, ironing. I wanted to be that “good wife,” but my strength faded daily.
Two years ago, I had our second child. The pregnancy was rough, and recovery worse—I barely moved for weeks. Instead of supporting me, Richard started complaining. The soup was bland. His shirt wasn’t ironed. Dust gathered on the shelves. Exhausted, with a baby in my arms, I tried keeping up. Mum and Margaret both said I was only doing my duty—nothing extraordinary. I believed them, even as resentment grew.
Then my seven-year-old son, Oliver, refused to pick up his toys, saying, “That’s girl’s work—Mum’ll do it.” He was parroting his father. Something inside me shattered. On another day, I might’ve brushed it off, but rage and despair took over. I screamed, sobbed, unable to stop. It wasn’t just a tantrum—it was my soul screaming to be seen. It took an hour to calm down, but I knew: this couldn’t go on.
That evening, I tried talking to Richard. Calmly, I explained how drained I was, how I needed even a little help—groceries, watching the kids so I could shower, maybe hoovering once a week. He cut me off: “What can’t you handle? The kids? The cleaning? The cooking? I support us while you’re off work, and now you want me to do your job too? What’ll you do—laze on the sofa?” His words stabbed like a knife. He hadn’t listened, didn’t care. Finally, he snapped, “I’ll manage fine without you. You won’t last a week without me.” Fine. Let’s see.
That was the day I stopped. I returned to work part-time, picking up private tutoring—something I’d done before. Cold war settled at home. I stopped catering to Richard—no cooking, no laundry, no ironing. Just meals for me and the kids, their clothes washed. If he wanted to live without me, let him try. Mum and Charlotte refused to babysit, accusing me of sabotaging my marriage. “What nonsense—not feeding your husband! He’s right, you’re selfish. We managed work and home, and we’re fine,” they said. “You’re a woman—endure it. That’s life,” Mum added. Normal for her, humiliating for me.
My friend Sophie, from my old teaching job, stepped in, looking after my youngest while I tutored. Oliver, at eight, could stay home alone. We’ve lived like this for 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-and-cooking machine. Oliver’s already learning responsibility—his little brother will grow up knowing chores aren’t “girl’s work.” Maybe Richard will wake up. If not, I’ll divorce. Better alone than invisible in my own home. My fate isn’t to please—it’s to live with dignity.
