After 12 years of marriage, I finally learned what a true break means.
Please, don’t rush to judge me—I’m not a frivolous wife nor am I running away from my family responsibilities. I’m simply a woman who, after twelve years of marriage, discovered one crucial truth: to be a good wife and mother, one must know how to truly relax—not in the kitchen with pots, nor with a rag in hand, nor under the mute complaints of a husband and the whims of children, but alone… or at least without them.
I’m Mary, I’m 38, and I live in York. An ordinary woman, nothing too remarkable. A husband, two school-age sons, a job in accounting. It’s the same as everyone else. Mornings are for breakfast, getting ready, driving to school, rushing to work, and evenings consist of dinner, laundry, homework, and meaninglessly talking in front of the TV. Every day is like a carbon copy.
I’ve loved the sea since I was a child; it’s like a breath of life to me. But my husband is indifferent to the sun—in fact, he’s allergic. He breaks out in spots, itches, and grumbles. And the kids… well, they’re just kids. All they want is to munch on sweets, lounge with their gadgets, and complain about being bored.
This summer, something incredible happened. My husband, having heard that temperatures in Brighton would be higher than average, said, “I’d rather stay home.” The boys also backed out of the trip, choosing instead a summer camp with their classmates. That’s when my friend Tanya suggested:
“My aunt has a free flat in Bournemouth. Fancy coming with us? We’ll take your sister Olivia, too—it’ll be fun!”
And so we—the three of us, Tanya, Olivia, and I—hit the road heading south. The car was filled with music, laughter, and endless conversations. It felt as though we had escaped from a household ship that was sinking.
In Bournemouth, we found the sea, sunshine, and peace. We made a pact: no cooking, no cleaning, just watermelons, cucumbers, tomatoes, and morning jogs on the beach. We slept on cool sheets, rose early, and walked barefoot on the sand. We dove into salty waves, got sun-kissed to a crisp, and laughed like young girls.
Those ten days were my dose of freedom. No one begged me to fry pancakes, there were no scenes at the ice cream stand, no complaints over sand in the towels. Not a single “Muuum, he hit me!” or “Why veggies again?”
There were, of course, some “admirers”—those holiday types with tans and beer breath. But we quickly let them know: keep moving, gents. We weren’t there to hunt, just to unwind. All three of us are married, we love our men. We just needed a breather.
I returned home renewed. Suntanned. Trim. And… happy. Most importantly, with a firm resolution: I will have these ten days every year. Not for flirtation, not to flee, but for myself. To return home not as a dried-up lemon peel, but as a vibrant woman.
I don’t want a holiday where only the walls change, not the duties. I don’t want to carry kids’ luggage, feed my husband in three rounds, and collapse from exhaustion by the third day.
Every woman needs her own private summer. Without guilt. Without the fear of “what will they think.” Because, trust me, no one needs a worn out, angry, worn down wife.
So, my dear ladies, don’t be afraid. Take a break. Go away. Recharge. Smile. Only then will you truly understand how vital it is to take a break… from the role of wife and mother.
Let this be your personal ritual. Your private island. Your sea—without reproaches, without loud demands. Just you, the wind, the sun, and quiet happiness inside.
