**Diary Entry – 25th September**
My husband claimed he’d manage just fine without me, but that I couldn’t cope without him. Well, we’ll see about that.
After eight years of marriage, I, Charlotte, finally shook off the shackles of the stereotypes my mother, grandmother, and mother-in-law had drilled into me for years. They insisted that a good wife must do it all: work, raise children, keep the house spotless, cook hearty meals, and ensure her husband always steps out in crisp shirts, well-fed and content. I tried to live up to it, but my husband, James, never noticed the effort. He took it for granted, blind to how exhausted I was. I grew weary—of being invisible, of carrying everything alone.
My family’s example was always before me. My mother, grandmother, and elder sister, Emily—they were all perfect homemakers, living for their families. Mum worked as a teacher, rushed home to cook lunch, then graded papers till midnight. No one called it heroic—it was just her “duty.” To this day, Dad doesn’t know where his socks are. Mum lays out his slippers, sets the table, serves his dinner. I’ve never seen him pick up a hoover or mop. Yes, he worked hard, came home late, but he earned well. That’s how he bought flats for me and Emily. Mum could’ve stayed home, but she believed her income mattered. Gran raised her that way, and she raised us the same.
Emily married five years before me and mirrored Mum perfectly. She trained as a teacher, had two children, and kept her home immaculate. Visiting her was like stepping into a magazine—gleaming floors, freshly baked cakes, well-kept kids. After my wedding, I dreamed of the same. I wanted to be the perfect wife, do it all myself. But James, unlike my father or Emily’s husband, didn’t earn much. He came home late, yet his salary barely covered our needs. I reassured him he’d rise in his career while I spun like a hamster in a wheel.
James never lifted a finger at home. Before marriage, he lived with his parents, and his mum, Margaret, shielded him from “women’s work.” To her, men fixed things, handled repairs, and carried heavy loads—but James had a hernia, so even that was out. In eight years, we hired builders for one renovation. Meanwhile, I killed myself cleaning, cooking, washing, ironing. I wanted to be that “good wife,” but my strength dwindled daily.
Two years ago, I had our second child. The pregnancy was rough, and recovery worse, but instead of supporting me, James grumbled. He moaned about bland soups, wrinkled shirts, dusty shelves. Exhausted, with a baby in my arms, I struggled to keep up. Mum and Margaret chorused that I wasn’t doing anything extraordinary—just a woman’s lot. I believed them, though inside, resentment festered.
Everything shattered when our seven-year-old, Oliver, refused to tidy his toys, scoffing, “That’s girls’ work—Mum’ll do it.” He’d echoed his father. Something in me snapped. Maybe on another day, I’d have brushed it off, but fury and despair overwhelmed me. I screamed, sobbed, unable to stop. It wasn’t a tantrum—it was the cry of a soul tired of invisibility. An hour later, I calmed but knew: this ends now.
That evening, I tried talking to James. Calmly, I explained how drained I was, how I needed his help—not to do it all, just to share the load: groceries, watching the kids so I could shower, a weekly clean. He cut me off: “What can’t you handle? The kids? The cleaning? The cooking? I support us while you’re on maternity leave, and now you want me to do your job? Should you just laze about?” His words stabbed. He didn’t listen, didn’t care. As we argued, he sneered, “I’ll manage without you—you won’t without me.” Fine. Let’s see.
From that day, I stopped. I went back to work part-time, tutoring English again. Cold war settled in our home. I quit waiting on James: no cooking, no laundry, no ironing. I fed myself and the kids; washed their clothes. He wanted to live without me? Let him try. Mum and Emily refused to help with the kids, accusing me of wrecking our marriage. “What nonsense—starving your husband! He’s right, you’ve only yourself to blame. We worked, kept house, and survived,” they scolded. “You’re a woman—endure it. That’s your lot,” Mum added. To her, it was normal. To me, it was degrading.
My friend Sarah, a colleague from school, stepped in. She minds our youngest while I tutor. Oliver’s old enough to stay alone. Two months in, I won’t return to being a servant. It’s hard, but I refuse to spend my life as a cleaning machine. I’m teaching Oliver responsibility; the little one won’t learn “men’s” or “women’s” work. I hope James rethinks. If not, I’ll divorce. Better alone than invisible in my own home. My fate isn’t to please—it’s to live with dignity.
**Lesson learned:** A marriage should be a partnership, not a sentence. And no one has the right to make you small.
