*Diary Entry*
**”If you think I do nothing for you, try living without me!”**
That evening, the silence in the house felt heavier than usual. Emily stirred the soup slowly, listening to the relentless ticking of the wall clock. Once, that sound had irritated herback when the house was full of noise, her sons laughter, and the constant bustle of family life. Now, the ticking was her only companion in the emptiness.
She glanced at her husband. Edward, as always, was hunched over his phone, the glow of the screen reflecting in his glasses. There was a time when she found that sight comfortingjust knowing he was home, next to her. Now, it only stirred quiet resentment.
“Dinners ready,” she said, forcing her voice to stay even.
He nodded without looking up. She set out the platesthe good ones from the fancy set she saved for special occasions. Though, what counted as special these days? The boys rarely visited, no grandchildren yet. Just the two of them in this big house, every corner whispering memories of better times.
She ladled the soup, garnished it with fresh parsley and thyme from the windowsillher little herb garden, grown just for his favourite dishes. Beside the plate, she placed warm, freshly sliced bread.
Finally, Edward put his phone down and picked up his spoon. She held her breath. First spoonful. Second. On the third, he grimaced.
“Bland again,” he muttered, pushing the bowl away.
Something inside her snapped. She looked down at her handsred from hot water, skin rough. All day shed been on her feet: washing his shirts, ironing his trousers, making that damned soup. On the stove, his favourite tea still simmeredbrewed just the way he liked it, because “any other way tastes wrong.”
Her gaze flicked to the pile of freshly ironed laundryeach piece folded perfectly, the way he insisted. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years folding shirts *just so* because “otherwise they crease.”
“You know what” Her voice tremblednot with tears, but anger. “If you think I do nothing for you, try living without me!”
He looked upreally looked at her, for the first time all evening. Surprise flickered in his eyes, as if he couldnt believe this quiet, obedient woman had raised her voice.
Emily shoved her chair back. It screeched against the floor, but she didnt care. She grabbed her coatan old one, bought three years ago because “why waste money on a new one, this still has years left.”
“Where are you going?” His voice wavered with concern, but she was already out the door.
The cool evening air hit her face, and for the first time in years, she felt like she could breathe properly. She didnt know where she was going. Didnt know what came next. But for the first time in too long, she wasnt afraid of the unknownshe felt something dizzying, intoxicating.
*Freedom.*
—
The small flat on the third floor greeted her with an unfamiliar quietnot the heavy kind shed left behind, but something light, airy. No ticking clock, no disapproving glances, no endless demands.
She woke earlyforce of habit, years of rising at six to make breakfast, iron shirts, pack lunches. But today was different. Emily lay in the unfamiliar bed, watching sunlight creep across the wall. No one rushing her. No one needing anything.
“I can just lie here,” she whispered, then laughed softly at the novelty.
Old habits tugged at her. Her hands itched to tidy, to dust, to fall back into routine. She stopped herself.
*No. Today, I do what I want.*
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, studying her reflection. When had she last *really* looked at herself? Not a quick glance to check her hair, but a proper look? Wrinkles had deepened around her eyes, more grey threaded through her hair. But her eyes they looked alive.
Outside, the crisp October morning smelled of fallen leaves and coffee from the café down the street. Shed passed it countless times, always hurrying to the shops. “Waste of money,” Edward always said. And shed agreed, telling herself homemade was better.
The bell above the door jingled. Inside, the smell of fresh pastries and cinnamon wrapped around her. Emily hesitated near the entrance, feeling like an intruder in this cosy space.
“Morning!” The young barista smiled. “What can I get you?”
“I” She faltered. Years of making coffee for otherswhen had she ever considered what *she* liked? “What would you recommend?”
“Our caramel latte with cinnamon is lovely. And the almond croissants just came out of the oven.”
A lifetime ago, shed have refusedtoo expensive, too indulgent, *what would Edward say?* But today was different.
“Yes, please. And a croissant too.”
She sat by the window, watching people pass. At the next table, a group of young women laughed, utterly carefree. When had she last laughed like that? Not politely, not out of obligationjust pure, unguarded joy?
The first sip of coffee spread caramel sweetness over her tongue. She closed her eyes. *God, could life really taste this good?*
Her phone stayed silent. For the first time in twenty-five years, Edward woke to no breakfast, no ironed shirt, no packed lunch. Was he angry? Confused? Or had he even noticed?
“Another coffee?” the barista asked.
Emily glanced at her watchold habit. Normally, shed be home by now, starting lunch. But today
“Yes, please. And another croissant.”
—
The phone rang as she unpacked her things. “James” flashed on the screenher eldest. Her hand hesitated. For the first time, she didnt want to answer.
“Hello?” Her voice was quieter than usual.
“Mum, whats going on?” James sounded irritated, just like his father. “Dad says you left. Whats this about?”
She sat on the edge of the bed. How could she explain to her son what she barely understood herself? The years of quiet despair, of dissolving into everyone elses needs?
“James, I”
“Oh, come on!” He cut her off. “Youre a grown woman. Dad made a comment about soupso what? Hes always been like that!”
His tone was patronisinglike scolding a child. A lump rose in her throat. Even her son, the boy shed carried, loved, raiseddidnt see her as a person with her own wants.
“Its not about the soup,” she said softly.
“Then what?” Command crept into his voice. “Dads beside himself. He tried cooking last nightcan you imagine?”
She pictured it: Edward fumbling with vegetables, swearing at the stove. Once, that image wouldve tugged her back. Now
“See?” She smiled faintly. “Turns out he *can* look after himself.”
“Mum!” Outrage sharpened his voice. “Youre tearing the family apart! What will people *think*?”
*People, people* Her whole life, shed lived for those invisible judges. Now her own son wielded their whispers like a weapon.
She stood by the window. A pigeon preened on the ledgefree, unburdened.
“Have you ever asked how *I* felt all those years?” Her voice steadied. “Ever wondered what *I* wanted?”
“What does that”
“It matters!” The words surprised her with their force. “Twenty-five years of cooking, cleaning, sacrificing. And you all you didnt even *see* me. I was just furniture. Always there, always working, never *me*.”
Silence. Then, softer: “Mum you *wanted* this. You always said family came first.”
“It does,” she agreed. “But Im part of that family too. And I wont be the hired help anymore.”
—
A month passed. Emily woke earlyold habits died hardbut now she lingered, listening to the city wake. The first bus rumbled past, footsteps echoed, someones gate creaked.
On the windowsill, her little herb garden thrivedparsley, thyme, basil. She cooked only for herself now. Sometimes it turned out well, sometimes not. No one wrinkled their nose or pushed a plate away.
Her phone buzzeda message from her youngest:
*”Mum, how are you? Fancy a visit?”*
She smiled. After that call with James, both boys had gone quietthen started calling differently. No demands. Just questions. *How are you? Whats new? Need anything?*
*”Come over,”* she replied. *”Ill be home.”*
*Home.* This rented flat with peeling wallpaper and a wobbly stool *was* home now. It smelled of coffee and cinnamon bunsher latest baking experiment (the first three batches burned).
She took out a new dressbright, nothing like the muted things she used to wear. Back then, she dressed to blend in.
