I am desperately envious of my younger sister, Mary. Her life seems like a fairy tale where she is the princess, and her husband fulfills her every whim like a loyal knight. Meanwhile, I feel like a weary Cinderella, carrying the weight of the entire family on my shoulders, suffocating under the strain and hopelessness. Sometimes, I feel like I am the most foolish and miserable woman in the world. I’ve been with my husband, Simon, for almost ten years now. We’ve faced a lot during that time, with a few happy moments, but more often dark times filled with challenges.
We’re now experiencing one of the darkest periods of our lives. A year ago, Simon decided to change jobs. We were promised the world: a stable income, good conditions, a bright future. But reality was a cruel joke on our hopes. The new position turned out to be a living hell, even worse than the last, and Simon now blames it all on me as if I had single-handedly pushed him into this abyss.
“Wasn’t it you who wanted me to change jobs? Well, are you happy now?” he throws at me with a bitter smirk whenever he can.
But who could have foreseen this? I only wanted him to grow, for our family to finally climb out of perpetual poverty. How could I have known it would end up a disaster? Now we are sinking in a financial pit. My salary is the only thing keeping us afloat because Simon’s pay has been delayed for months. We are barely making ends meet, and every day I feel the pressure even more.
Last spring, my phone broke. Repairing it would cost almost as much as a new one, so we decided to postpone the purchase. For months, I struggled with an old tablet until we had to pawn it. Almost all of my gold jewelry, the few tokens of better days, followed it there. We needed the money urgently, so I sacrificed everything I had. Did we touch Simon’s belongings? No, only my sacrifices were put to use.
Mary, my younger sister, took pity on me and gave me her old phone so I could stay somewhat connected. I gave my all to ensure my family didn’t go hungry. Yes, Simon works too, sometimes picking up extra jobs, but he does so begrudgingly, as if I am forcing him into hard labor. Each time, I must plead with him, almost on my knees.
Recently, Mary’s husband, Alex, mentioned that she demanded the latest iPhone as a gift for Mother’s Day. I felt a burning envy igniting within me—a feeling I am ashamed of, yet cannot suppress. Mary and Alex rent a flat in Manchester, just like Simon and me, but they live differently. Mary controls her husband like a puppet: he works evenings as a cab driver, goes on business trips, saves money, and caters to her every desire. Her salary is her own little treasure, spent solely on herself. Last year, she simply went to a boutique and bought herself a luxurious fur coat just because she felt like it.
“Men should provide for housing, food, and other concerns,” she declares with the confidence of a queen.
Mary is truly beautiful. She invests all her money in herself: eyelash extensions, perfect manicures, well-groomed brows, stylish hairdos, fashionable clothes, and other delights. Next to her, I feel like a gray shadow—worn out, untidy, forgotten. I can’t even remember the last time I went to the hairdresser, let alone had a manicure. Everything I earn goes to the family, and Simon doesn’t think to bring home an extra penny. I have to coax any extra work or change out of him with great effort.
The other day, I got paid, and Simon hinted again that the rent and groceries would have to come from my pocket. I am torn apart by resentment: he doesn’t even try to change anything or strive for our sake.
“You know we’re tight on money, and my pay is delayed again,” he grumbled when I asked what he would get me for my birthday.
Yet, if he goes without a present for a holiday, he sulks like a child. I always try to make him happy, to find at least a little something so he doesn’t feel deprived. And him? I’m not expecting expensive phones or lavish surprises—true happiness isn’t about money. But even simple attention or a small gesture of care is beyond what he provides. He just doesn’t understand that.
I thought our troubles were temporary, just a rough patch that would soon end. But now, I see it’s not just a patch—it’s our entire life. I’ve tried talking to Simon, and it’s led to arguments, but he just shrugs: “My paycheck is delayed, what can I do?”
“What if we had children, how would we survive then?” I once asked in desperation.
He stayed silent. And I look at Mary, feeling consumed by envy. I’m ashamed of these feelings, but they overwhelm me. Her husband treats her like a queen, showers her with gifts, buys her whatever she desires, while I still use her discarded phone. Why do some women, like Mary, get everything? Is it just a stroke of good luck? Or is it about the men? Why is life a constant celebration for some, a simple snap of the fingers, while mine is an endless gray drudgery?
