I’m 46 and if you looked at my life from the outside, you’d think everything was just fine. I married young – at 24 – to a hardworking, responsible Englishman. I had two children close together – at 26 and 28. I quit university because the schedules didn’t fit, the children were small, and I thought “there’d be time for it later.” There were never any big scandals or drama. Everything went along the way it’s “supposed to.” For years, my routine was always the same. I’d get up before everyone else, make breakfast, leave the house tidy, and head to work. I’d get home on time to finish chores, cook, wash, tidy up. Weekends were for family gatherings, birthdays, commitments. I was always there, always the one to take responsibility. If something was missing, I fixed it. If someone needed help, I was there. Never once did I ask myself if I wanted something more. My husband was never a bad man. We’d have dinner, watch telly, and go to bed. Not particularly affectionate, but not cold either. Didn’t want much, but never complained. Our conversations always revolved around bills, the kids, and chores. One ordinary Tuesday I sat in the living room, in silence, and realised I had nothing to do. Not because everything was fine, but because, in that moment, nobody needed me. I looked around and saw that for years, I’d kept this home running – but now, I didn’t know what to do with myself inside it. That day, I opened a drawer of old papers and found certificates, unfinished courses, ideas jotted in notebooks, projects set aside “for later.” I looked at photos from when I was young – before I was a wife, before I was a mum, before I was the one who fixed everything. I didn’t feel nostalgia. I felt something worse: the sense that I’d achieved everything without ever asking if it was what I wanted. Suddenly, I started to notice things I’d always thought were normal. That nobody asked how I was. That even when I came home exhausted, it was still down to me to sort everything out. That if he didn’t fancy a family gathering, that was fine, but if I didn’t want to go, it was still expected I would. That my opinion was there, but it didn’t carry any weight. There were no rows or drama, but there wasn’t space for me either. One night at dinner, I mentioned I wanted to go back to uni or try something different. My husband looked surprised and said, “What for, now?” He didn’t say it unkindly. He said it the way someone who doesn’t understand why anything needs to change says it. The kids were quiet. No one argued. No one forbade me. And yet I realised my role was so clearly defined that stepping out of it felt uncomfortable. I’m still married. I haven’t left, I haven’t packed my bags, I haven’t made any big decisions. But I’m not pretending to myself anymore. I know that for over twenty years, I’ve lived to hold together a structure where I was needed, but never the main character. How do you put yourself back together after something like that?

I’m 46, and if anyone peered at my life from beyond the windowpane, theyd likely say everything was properly in order. I married youngat 24to a diligent, responsible man named Edward. Two children followed, one after the otherEleanor at 26, and Lucy at 28. I abandoned my university studies, finding the schedules impossible, the little ones needing me, and because there would be time for myself later. There were never any great scandals or scenes. Life unfurled as it was supposed to.

For years, my routine followed the same winding path, looping endlessly. Up before the others, making toast and tea, leaving the house in perfect order before heading to work under the patient English drizzle. Home right on time to cook shepherds pie, pop a wash on, tidy up. Weekends swirled with family gatherings, birthdays, obligatory visits. I was always therealways the one to take on what needed doing. If something was lacking, Id fix it. If someone was in need, Id rush to their side. I never asked myself whether I wished for something beyond.

Edward, my husband, was never cruel. Dinners at the old elm table, telly in the lounge, upstairs to bed. He wasnt particularly affectionate, but neither was he aloof. He never wanted for much, but he didnt complain either. Our words orbited around bills in pounds, school notices, chores, the rising cost of milk.

One ordinary Tuesday, I sat quietly in the sitting room, the silence enveloping me with its odd, blooming hush. I realised, with uncanny clarity, that I had nothing to donot because everything was perfect, but because just then, nobody needed me. I gazed around and saw that Id held the framework of this home together for decades, yet inside it, I no longer knew what to do with myself.

That day, I slid open a dusty drawer and found old certificates, unfinished courses, ideas scribbled in old exercise books, plans set aside for another time. I leafed through photos from beforebefore wifehood, before I was someones mother, before I became the fixer of everything. There was no nostalgia. Something sharper: a sensation that Id accomplished it all, somehow, without ever asking if it was what I wanted.

I started noticing things Id long accepted as normal. Nobody asked how I was. Even if I crawled home worn out, it was still on my head to solve every problem. If Edward announced he didnt care for a family party, it was accepted; if I didnt want to go, I was expected to attend regardless. My opinion existed yet carried no weight. There were no rows, no drama, but not an inch of space for me.

One evening over sausages and mash, I mentioned I might go back to my studies or try something new. Edwards eyes widened, as if Id spoken in riddles, and he quietly asked, But why bother now? There was no malicejust the bemused confusion of someone who cannot comprehend changing a thing that has always worked. The girls were silent. No arguments, no refusals. Yet I saw my piece in the patternthis role so cleanly drawn that stepping outside it was quietly unsettling.

Im still married. I havent packed my bags, I havent stormed out, no great declarations. But I no longer hide from myself. I know now that for over twenty years Ive tended to an intricate, orderly structure, where I was indispensablejust not the heroine of my own tale.

How, I wonder, does one mend oneself after such a peculiar, dreamlike slumber?