My husband claimed he could manage without me, but not the other way around. Well, we’ll see about that.
After eight years of marriage, I, Emily, finally shook off the weight of the expectations drilled into me by my mother, grandmother, and mother-in-law. They insisted a good wife did it all—worked, raised children, kept the house spotless, cooked hearty meals, and ensured her husband stepped out in crisp shirts, well-fed and content. I tried to live up to it, but my husband, James, never noticed the toll it took. He grew accustomed to me handling everything, blind to my exhaustion. I was tired—tired of being unseen, tired of carrying it all alone.
My family’s example loomed over me. Mum, Gran, and my older sister Charlotte—all perfect homemakers who lived for their families. Mum taught at the local primary school, rushed home to cook lunch, then graded papers till midnight. No one called it heroic—it was just her “duty.” To this day, Dad doesn’t know where his socks are kept. Mum brings him his slippers, sets the table, serves dinner. I’ve never seen him lift a hoover or a mop. True, he worked late, but he earned well—enough to buy Charlotte and me our flats. Mum could’ve quit her job, but she believed her contribution mattered. That’s how Gran raised her, and how she raised us.
Charlotte married five years before me and mirrored Mum’s life—qualified as a teacher, had two children, and turned her home into a model of order. Visiting her, I marveled at the spotless floors, fresh-baked scones, and well-kept kids. After my wedding, I dreamed of the same. I wanted to be the perfect wife, doing it all. But James, unlike Dad or Charlotte’s husband, didn’t earn much. He worked late, yet his salary barely covered bills. I reassured him he’d climb the ladder, while I spun like a hamster in a wheel.
James never lifted a finger at home. Before marriage, he’d lived with his parents, and his mum, Margaret, shielded him from “women’s work.” Men, she said, should fix things and carry heavy loads—except James had a bad back, so even that excuse fell flat. In eight years, we hired decorators for one measly refurbishment. Meanwhile, I scrubbed, cooked, laundered, ironed—striving for perfection, but my energy drained daily.
Two years ago, I had our second child. The pregnancy was rough, and recovery slower still, but instead of support, James grumbled—about lumpy mash, creased shirts, dusty shelves. Exhausted, with a newborn in my arms, I pushed through. Mum and Margaret chorused, “That’s just how it is for women.” I believed them, though resentment simmered beneath.
Then my seven-year-old, Oliver, refused to tidy his toys, declaring, “That’s girls’ work—Mum’ll do it.” He’d echoed his father. Something snapped. On another day, I might’ve let it slide, but fury and despair swallowed me whole. I screamed, sobbed—not a tantrum, but the howl of a soul sick of being invisible. It took an hour to calm down, but I knew: this couldn’t go on.
That evening, I tried talking to James. Calmly, I explained how overwhelmed I was—not asking him to do everything, just to share the load: pop to Tesco, watch the kids while I showered, maybe vacuum once a week. He cut me off. “What can’t you handle? The kids? The cleaning? I’m supporting us while you’re on maternity leave, and now you want me to do your job? What’ll you do—lounge on the sofa?” His words cut deep. He didn’t hear me, didn’t care to. Finally, he spat, “I’ll manage fine without you. You won’t without me.” Well, we’ll see.
From that day, I stopped. I returned to part-time work—tutoring French, which I’d done before. The house became a battleground. No more running after James: no cooking, no laundry, no ironing. I fed myself and the kids; washed their clothes only. If he thought he could live without me, let him try. Mum and Charlotte refused to babysit, accusing me of sabotaging my marriage. “What rubbish—starving your husband! He’s right, you brought this on yourself. We worked, kept house, and survived,” they scolded. “You’re a woman—endure it. That’s life,” Mum added. To her, it was normal; to me, degrading.
My schoolfriend Lily helped, minding the baby during my lessons. Oliver, now older, stayed home alone. Two months on, I won’t return to being a maid. It’s hard, but I refuse to spend my life as a cleaning robot. I’m teaching Oliver chores; the baby will learn no chore is “just for girls.” Maybe James will wake up. If not, I’ll file for divorce. Better alone than invisible in my own home. My worth isn’t in serving—it’s in living with dignity.
