For too long, I lived for others… Now I choose myself.
Sometimes, in the quiet of an ordinary day, a woman wakes to the crushing realization that all her life, the voices of others have drowned out her own. That’s how it was for me. My name is Margaret Hayes, I’m forty-five, and I live in Manchester. It may sound like a tired cliché, but only now have I understood—nearly half a century spent obeying someone else’s rules. Never my own. The weight of that truth is a dull, suffocating ache.
A chance meeting with my old school friend, Charlotte, after ten years apart, became the spark. We talked for hours—about life, children, regrets. And there, in the echo of my own words, I heard it: a woman trapped, living by command, not choice. And I was done.
It began in childhood. My parents—respectable, stern—always knew what was right for me. They decided everything: friends, education, career. I dreamed of law, but they insisted on literature. One day, without asking, they sent my application to the university.
I went. Step by miserable step, I walked their path. Studied without passion, passed exams without purpose. But they were proud—their “clever girl with a degree.”
They found me a job, too—teaching English at a local school. The thought of drilling grammar into disinterested children made my stomach twist. But I went. Because I always went where I was told.
Then came Paul. A PE teacher at the same school. He proposed, and I… agreed. Not for love, but escape. I thought he’d free me from my parents. Instead, I traded one cage for another.
Paul was harsh, controlling. To him, I was a maid, a cook, a convenience. Any protest was met with scorn. I endured. Silence was all I knew—obey, adapt, disappear.
My daughter was my only light. I gave her the love, the choices, I never had. When she was eleven, I began saving—secretly, from Paul—pennies scraped from sewing late into the night. At fourteen, I sent her to boarding school in London. She thrived. Now, she’s at university—strong, brilliant, free. My one victory.
My aunt was my refuge—childless, kind—the only one who saw me.
Now, for the first time in forty-five years, I face the mirror and ask: What do *I* want? Not my parents. Not Paul. Not society. *Me*.
I want silence. Books. Work that doesn’t choke me. I want to stitch tapestries again, like I did as a girl. I want a small flat, my own rules, a fresh start.
I’m searching for jobs, scanning rental ads. Slowly, I’m carving a path to the woman I should’ve been. No more victims. No more orders.
If anyone asks—do I regret it? Yes. But not leaving. Only that I waited this long.
