The Golden Cage, or How I Lost Myself in Marriage
When I was born, my mother named me Emily. She believed that the name was bright and cheerful, that her daughter would be smiley, happy, and loved. At that time, no one knew that as the years passed, my smile would become increasingly rare and happiness would merely be a facade for others.
Everything began when I met Him. Oliver. Tall, handsome, with a confident voice and a gaze that made butterflies flutter in my stomach. He was a true gentleman—the kind of ideal partner I imagined for myself. I didn’t see how beneath this confidence lurked a cold control. How gallant gestures hid an unwavering will. I simply fell in love. Foolishly, naively, with wide-open eyes and a tender heart.
We got married quite quickly. I thought back then that if a man loves you, he hurries to make you his wife. How wrong I was… He did want to make me “his”—in every sense. His own. Submissive. Obedient.
Initially, everything seemed wonderful. Dining out, traveling, expensive gifts. Winter holidays in the mountains, summers by the sea, parties with his friends. To outsiders, it was a perfect picture. Envy from friends, likes on social media. But inside, I felt empty, as with all this external glitter, I was losing myself more and more.
Decisions were made without me. He chose where we would go, what we would have for dinner, how we would spend our weekends. But that was only the half of it. More importantly, he decided how I should look, what to wear, how to style my hair, and even the tone of my voice.
— Darling, this dress is too plain—don’t embarrass me.
— Why jeans again? A woman should be feminine.
— You don’t work in a factory to be wearing a T-shirt.
I tried joking, persuading, but time and again, I hit a cold wall. He never shouted. Never hit. He just looked at me as if I were a disappointment. And I felt ashamed. I wanted to be good. I tried. And little by little, I stopped being myself.
But the worst was when I brought up the idea of having a child. I’m 30. I’ve long felt a deep desire to become a mother. And it isn’t just a wish—it’s a longing. But it seemed he had always known he wouldn’t allow that. His reply stunned me:
— Why have a child? I’m content with you. I love you. I don’t want anyone interfering in our lives.
Love… Yet I feel like a prisoner. He doesn’t want to share my love. He wants to monopolize it. He doesn’t need me to be a mother. He wants me to be just a wife. Convenient. Beautiful. Obedient.
I increasingly find myself feeling suffocated. Despite the comfort and outward shine, I’m not free. Every step I take is monitored, every glance supervised. I cannot want for myself. I cannot feel differently. I can only exist as “his.”
One day, I tried to talk seriously with him. Told him I wanted children, that I was tired of being a doll in a beautiful house. He listened silently. Then he embraced me. Said I was imagining things. That everything was fine for us. That I was his happiness. His treasure. And if I had a child, it would take that treasure away.
Hearing this was terrifying. There was no anger or pain in his voice. Just a fanatical resolve. As if he genuinely believed he had the right to decide for both of us. That I was his possession. Loved, but a possession.
Since then, I haven’t raised the topic again. But the fear that I will remain a captive to this love forever haunts me. I’m 32 now. I want a child. A family where I can breathe. Where I am heard. Where I have the right to have an opinion. Where I’m valued not as a picture but as a person.
I’m writing to you because I don’t know what to do. I still love him. Or maybe I love who he was in the beginning. Or who I wanted him to become. I don’t know. But I do feel if things continue like this, I will break. I’ll simply cease to exist as an individual.
Tell me… how do I explain to a man that love is not a cage, even if it’s golden? That a family is not a dictatorship, but a union? That I shouldn’t have to choose between “loving” and “living”? How do I communicate when he only hears himself?
I don’t want to leave. But I can’t continue living like this any longer.
