I went through hell, got divorced, and found a new version of myself—now I’m truly living.
Sometimes life drags you along in darkness, making you carry suitcases filled with pain, shame, fatigue, and fear. But then there’s a day when you just drop them to the ground, straighten your shoulders, and take a step forward. It’s a step into the unknown, into freedom, into yourself. That happened to me. Now, when I look back, it seems like the woman I was before the divorce is a completely different person—forgotten, lost, and broken.
My name is Laura. I’m from Norwich, and I’m 52 now. Once, a long time ago, I got married not out of love, but because it was “necessary.” In our area and in those times, a woman over the age of 25 without a husband was seen as flawed, a family’s shame. The pressure was everywhere—from parents, aunts, and neighbors. I couldn’t go to the movies with a friend without being interrogated: “Did you go with a guy? Is he serious? When’s the wedding?”
So, I got married. To an old classmate, Sam. He was ordinary, maybe too much so. No exceptional traits or ambitions. But he had a passport and a ring. My family sighed with relief. Still, happiness didn’t follow.
Then the daughters were born—one after another. That was my joy. I adored being a mum, sewing dresses for them, doing their hair. That was my world. Home, girls, needle and thread—that’s where I breathed. But money was dreadfully lacking. My husband neither could work nor wanted to. He’d switch jobs, quit, look again, then drink. Each time he sank deeper into a rut.
At first, I endured it. Then I suggested: let me start sewing at home; at least we’ll have some money. He flew into a rage: “A woman should stay at home, not be the breadwinner!” Soon, there was no talking to him at all—he started drinking heavily. Bottles accumulated in the closet like monuments to my lost hopes.
Then came the recession. The 90s. No work at all. The eldest daughter was preparing for graduation, the younger was on the brink of adolescence, and at home was a drunk husband and an empty fridge. The first time he attacked me with shouting and fists, I realized it was over. This wasn’t a family: it was survival.
The next day—another blow: he grabbed me by the throat and growled, “Where do you hide the money, you witch?” I could barely breathe. My eldest saved me—she rushed in, pulled him away, and called the neighbors. They threw him out of the house. Then came the court. The divorce. We divided nothing—there was nothing to share.
I was left alone. A woman with two daughters, bruises on my body, and a shattered soul. In a city with no future. But—I remained. I lived. I picked myself up.
My daughters became my wings. The eldest went to college part-time and worked as a waitress. I took out my sewing machine and got back to work. Sewing, mending, altering, and remaking. People weren’t living the high life then—wearing whatever they could find, and I quickly got clients.
We started slowly getting back on our feet.
Then—a miracle. My daughter met a foreigner. A kind, gentle guy. They had a modest wedding and moved away. A year later, I became a grandmother. They sent help. We could buy meat. I began to sleep at night again.
The youngest daughter also didn’t disappoint. She studied hard and eventually got into university in the US—the eldest helped with advice and funds. I was left alone. Yes, it was tough; my heart howled. But I knew—it was for their future.
One day, my eldest daughter called and said:
“Mum, you’ve earned a vacation. Do you have your passport? Look for it. I’ve booked you on a cruise.”
At first, I thought I’d misheard. A cruise? Me? Yet there I was, on board a massive ship, where everything sparkles, smells of the exotic, where women laugh without looking back, and men look you in the eye. I didn’t meet a prince there. But I met… myself. The real me.
I stood on the deck at night, watching the water split beneath the ship, and thought: I survived. I managed. I left behind the person who broke me and rebuilt my life. I wasn’t just living—I started dreaming again.
Upon returning, I decided not to stop there. I picked up a camera. Now, my hobby is traveling across England and taking photos. I journey with friends, exploring small towns, nature reserves, and historic churches. I capture it all—and send the pictures to my daughters. They write back: “Mum, you’re the strongest. And the happiest.”
Now, I’m not wealthy, but I have everything I need. Freedom. A smile. And belief in myself.
Those dark years are behind me. Ahead lies light, new paths, and me. The real me.
