**Diary Entry**
Last night was another sleepless one. A sharp jab from my husband jolted me awake. “Stop snoring, for God’s sake!” he snapped at two in the morning. I only snore when I sleep on my back, but these days, instead of gently turning me, he shoves or kicks, then drifts off while I lie there, restless until dawn, clutching my sleeping pills.
Weve been married for 27 years. Two years ago, we should have celebrated our silver anniversary. There was no partyPaul forgot. He was too busy obsessing over the new car hed bought, passing the old one down to our son.
Wed been saving for a house for himhe had a girlfriendbut Paul decided cars were a better investment. “Prices are rising,” he argued. “They can just stay in his room.” No one asked me, even though most of the savings were mineI earned more. After that, I started keeping my money separate. Paul sulked at first. “Whats the problem?” I asked. “You can save your own way.”
“On my salary?” he scoffed.
I have a degree. My friend Emily and I left our small town for Manchester to study teaching. We graduated with ease, but she quit after a year in the classroom, trained as a hairdresser in London, and now runs her own salon.
I stayed in education longer. During my first teaching post, I met Paul on a school trip to the technical college where he worked as a workshop supervisor. Charming, tall, and quick-witted, he laughed when I said, “I never knew factory work could sound so interesting.” We married six months laterjust my parents attended the small ceremony.
We moved into his mothers three-bed flat. An only child, Paul had lost his father young. Years later, his mother remarrieda widower she met on holiday in Cornwalland left the flat to us.
Mum had drilled into me since childhood: *A good wife keeps the house spotless, but never lets her husband notice the effort. Men hate weekend cleaningget it done before hes home.* So I rose at five, cooked breakfast and dinner, lunching at the staff canteen. I cleaned, ironed, and marked books before bed.
At 24, our son James was born. Staying home was a reliefno more rushing to work, just chores during naps. Money was tight on Pauls wages, though. When Emily visited with baby gifts, I borrowed cash to tide us over.
“Listen,” she said. “James is ten months old. Come train with my manicurist, Gemmano rent for the booth. Paul can mind him evenings. Women always care for their nails, recession or not.”
I learned fast, rented a booth near home (tools bought with Emilys loan), and worked evenings5 to 10 p.m. Clients flocked in; office women wanted after-hours appointments. I never returned to teaching.
Life improved. We bought a car, renovated the flat, took seaside holidaysthough I only joined them three times. Summer brought pedicure rush. Paul adored me then. “Youre my bread and butter,” hed say fondly.
Six years later, our daughter Lily arrived. I hired a nanny, worked noon till 8 p.m. James started school nearby, walking himself home. Lily grew; expenses ballooned. I hardly slept. Visits home dwindled to funerals or fleeting weekends.
Now James is 24, Lily 18. Hes a law graduate stuck in a low-paying job. Lily studies IT. A year ago, James moved his girlfriend, Sophie, inquiet, aloof, always locked in their room.
One day, I realised: we werent a family anymore, just housemates. Pauls temper flared often. I stopped talking to avoid arguments. James and Sophie stayed hidden. Once, I almost tidied their room but stopped myselflet them live as they please.
Lily grew ruder. “Piss off!” shed snap if I reminded her to clean. Now she drops dirty laundry on the bathroom floor, wont lift the hamper lid.
Yesterday, rushing to work, I asked Sophie to load the dishwasher and mop the kitchen.
“Im not your maid,” she said, slamming the door.
After Pauls shove, I gave up on sleep. By 5 a.m., Id made breakfast, prepped dinner, peeled potatoesseething. When had I become their unpaid housekeeper? When did they stop seeing me as anything more?
They ate cheerfully, no thanks given. Paul left first, then Lily, tossing a blouse at me: “Wash thisI need it tonight!” Sophie emerged glamorous. James cornered me: “Dont upset Sophie again. If you make her cry, youre no mother of mine.”
I cancelled my appointments, packed my tools, settled the rent. At home, I stuffed a holdall with essentials, left a note on the fridge: *”You dont need a wife or mother anymore, and Im done being your maid. Youll manage fine without me.”*
Mum gasped when I turned up. “Agnes! How did you know I was ill? I meant to call, but”
“I need to find myself again,” I said, hugging her, tears falling.
I thought Paul might beg me back, that the kids would apologise. He never called. Lily did: “How could you leave? And my blouse isnt washed! Honestly, were better off.”
Five months now, living with Mum in my hometown. I rent a small salon space, work gentler hoursless income, fewer expenses. Emily calls with news.
Paul moved in with a single coworkertheyd been close for years. Lily brought her boyfriend home: “If James can, why cant I?” Paul gives her spending money, never enough. Shed beg more from him, too proud to ask me*”Were better off,”* after all.
The flats a mess. No one cooks.
I worry, but comfort myselftheyre adults. They dont call.
Paul failed me. I was too busy working to see him drifting away.
Divorce papers are filed. At 49, Im left picking through shattered dreams, the family I gave 27 years to gone.
The cruelest part? Blaming myself.
A woman should never trust her family wholly.
Theyll walk all over you and never look down.
