After 12 years of marriage, I finally understood what a real break is
Don’t rush to judge me—I’m not a fickle wife or shirking my family duties. I’m just a woman who, after twelve years of marriage, realized this simple yet life-saving truth: to be a good wife and mother, you must understand how to truly relax—not in the kitchen with pots, not with a cleaning rag in hand, not under the muffled complaints of a husband and the whims of children, but alone… or at least without them.
I’m Mary, 38, living in Brighton. An ordinary woman, nothing particularly remarkable. A husband, two school-aged sons, a job in accounting. Everything’s just like everyone else. Mornings are breakfast, getting ready, driving the kids to school, rushing to work; evenings are dinner, laundry, homework, and aimless conversations in front of the TV. Every day feels like a carbon copy of the last.
I’ve loved the sea since childhood; it’s like a breath of life for me. But my husband is indifferent to the sun, or rather, allergic to it. He breaks out in spots, scratches, and complains. And the kids… well, they’re just kids. All they care about is munching on sweets, lounging with their tablets, and whining about boredom.
This summer, something incredible happened. My husband, learning that the temperatures were going to be higher than usual, said, “I’d rather stay home.” The boys opted out of the trip too—they wanted to go to a summer camp with their classmates. And then my friend, Tina, suggested:
—My aunt has an available flat in Cornwall. Fancy joining us? We’ll bring your sister, Olivia, too—let’s have an adventure!
So there we were, the three of us—Tina, Olivia, and myself—speeding down the motorway heading south. The car filled with music, laughter, and chatter until we were hoarse. It felt like escaping from a ship sinking under routine.
Cornwall greeted us with the sea, heat, and tranquility. We vowed: no cooking, no cleaning, just watermelon, cucumbers, tomatoes, and morning runs along the beach. We slept on cool sheets, rose early, and walked barefoot on the sand. Plunged into salty waves, tanned to a perfect bronze, and laughed like schoolgirls.
Those ten days were my freedom. No one asked for pancakes, no meltdowns over ice cream truck choices, no grumbling about sand in the towels. Not a single “Muuuum, he hit me!” or “Vegetables again?!”
Sure, there were “admirers”—holiday types with tans and the smell of too much sun cream. But we quickly made it clear: move along, gentlemen. We’re not here to flirt; we’re here to relax. We’re all married, love our men, and just needed to pause.
I returned home renewed. Suntanned. Slimmer. And…happy. Most importantly, with a firm resolution: I’ll have ten days like this every year. Not for flirting, not for running away. But for me. So I can return home not as the rind of a squeezed lemon, but as a living woman.
I don’t want any more holidays where only the scenery changes, not the responsibilities. I don’t want to carry kids’ luggage, feed my husband in three sittings and collapse by day three.
Every woman needs her own personal summer. Without guilt. Without fear of “what will they think.” Because, believe me, no one wants a worn-out, angry, driven-to-the-limit wife.
So, my dear ones, don’t be afraid. Take a break. Go away. Refresh yourself. Smile. Only then will you truly understand the importance of time away… from the role of being a wife and mum.
Let this be your personal ritual. Your personal island. Your sea—without complaints, without loud demands. Just you, the breeze, the sun, and quiet happiness within.
