After eight years of marriage, I, Emily, finally shook off the shackles of the stereotypes that my mum, gran, and mother-in-law had drilled into me for years. They insisted that a good wife was a woman who could do it all: hold down a job, raise the kids, keep the house spotless, whip up delicious meals, and ensure her husband always had a crisp shirt, a full belly, and a smile on his face. I tried my best to live up to that, but my husband, James, never seemed to notice the effort. He’d grown used to me doing everything, barely registering how exhausted I was. I was tired—tired of being invisible, tired of carrying the weight of the household on my shoulders.
I’d always had my family’s examples in front of me. My mum, gran, and older sister Charlotte were all picture-perfect homemakers, living entirely for their families. Mum worked at a primary school, rushed home to cook lunch, and then graded papers till midnight. No one saw it as heroic—just her “duty as a woman.” Dad still doesn’t know where his socks are kept. Mum brings him his slippers, sets the table, serves dinner. I’ve never once seen him pick up a hoover or a mop. Sure, he worked long hours and came home late, but he earned well—enough to buy flats for me and Charlotte. Mum could’ve quit her job, but she believed her contribution mattered. Gran had raised her that way, and she raised us the same.
Charlotte, five years older than me, married young and mimicked Mum perfectly. She trained as a teacher, had two kids, and turned her home into a showroom of domestic bliss. Whenever I visited, the place hummed: kids polished, floors gleaming, fresh scones on the table. After my wedding, I dreamed of the same. I wanted to be the perfect wife, handling everything myself. But James, unlike my dad or Charlotte’s husband, didn’t bring in much. He came home late, but his salary barely covered our bills. I reassured him he was brilliant, destined for bigger things. Meanwhile, I spun like a hamster on a wheel.
James never lifted a finger at home. Before marriage, he’d lived with his parents, and his mum, Margaret, had shielded him from “women’s work.” In her eyes, a man’s job was to fix things, do DIY, and carry heavy bags—except James had a bad back, so even that was off the table. In eight years, we’d managed one renovation, and even then, we hired a crew. Meanwhile, I killed myself keeping things perfect: cleaning, cooking, laundry, ironing. I wanted to be that “good wife,” but my energy drained faster than the bathwater after the kids’ bedtime.
Two years ago, I had our second child. The pregnancy was rough, and recovery even worse—I could barely move. Instead of stepping up, James just grumbled. The soup was bland. His shirts weren’t pressed. There was dust on the shelves. Exhausted, with a newborn in my arms, I tried to keep up. Mum and Margaret chirped in unison that I wasn’t doing anything extraordinary—just a woman’s lot. I believed them, even as the weight of their expectations threatened to drown me.
Then my seven-year-old, Oliver, refused to tidy his toys, declaring, “That’s girls’ work—Mum’ll do it.” He was parroting his dad. Something inside me snapped. On another day, I might’ve brushed it off, but this time, fury and despair crashed over me. I screamed, sobbed, couldn’t stop. It wasn’t just a tantrum—it was the scream of a woman sick of being unseen. By the time I calmed down an hour later, I knew: this couldn’t go on.
That evening, I tried talking to James. Calmly, I explained how drained I was, how I needed help—not for him to take over, just to share the load: pop to Tesco, watch the kids while I showered, maybe vacuum once a week. He cut me off. “What’s so hard? Kids? Cleaning? Cooking? I’m supporting us while you’re on maternity, and now you want me to do your job? What’ll you do—lounge on the sofa?” His words stabbed. He didn’t hear me. Didn’t want to. As the row ended, he tossed out, “I’d manage fine without you. You wouldn’t last a week without me.” Well. We’ll see about that.
From that day, I was done. I went back to work part-time—tutoring English, which I’d done before. The house became a battleground. I stopped running after James: no cooking, no laundry, no ironing. I fed myself and the kids, washed their clothes. If he wanted to live without me, let him try. Mum and Charlotte refused to babysit, accusing me of sabotaging my marriage. “What nonsense—starving your husband! He’s right, you brought this on yourself. I worked, kept house, and survived,” they scolded. “You’re a woman—put up with it,” Mum added. To her, it was normal. To me, it was humiliation.
My friend Sophie, from my old teaching job, stepped in. She minded the baby while I tutored. Oliver, at seven, could stay home alone. It’s been two months now. I won’t go back to being a servant. It’s tough, but I refuse to spend my life as a cleaning-and-cooking machine. Oliver’s already learning chores; the baby won’t grow up dividing work by gender. Maybe James will wake up. If not, I’ll divorce. Better alone than invisible in my own home. My destiny isn’t to please—it’s to live with dignity.
