Looking back now, I realise the gravity of the mistakes I made in my life, but the greatest error still lives under the same roof, and I am at a loss for what to do. I was twenty-five when I married a man named Edward. He was two years my senior, and in those days, he seemed almost like a prince riding in to rescue me.
Edward showered me with flowers and gifts, carried my heavy bags, never raised his voice, and somehow, we always managed to solve any issue calmly. We had never lived together before marriage; neither of us believed in cohabitation, considering it rather improper. So, we wed without much fuss. My parents contributed some money towards the wedding, but the sum wasnt nearly enough to purchase a home. I wasnt keen on renting, eitherwhy pay someone else and endure their constant reminders about our living arrangements?
In the end, Edwards mother suggested we stay with her. She had two bedrooms in her flat and often felt lonely; there was plenty of space, so why not move in?
I agreed without much hesitation. Edwards mother appeared a sensible woman, and I didnt struggle to find common ground with her. However, once I moved in as Edwards wife, reality dawnedmother still treated him as a child. When living with her, Edward hardly lifted a finger around the house. She would even wash his underwear and socks for him, a grown man of nearly thirty! It was absurd.
Edward simply went to work and minded his own business. The moment we started living together, all the household duties seemed to fall onto my shoulders. I was expected to cook for everyone, tidy up, do the laundry, and iron clothes. Was this what I needed? Edwards mother never interfered or entered the kitchen while I cooked, but her refusal to help made me feel more like a servant than a member of their family.
As time went on, things worsened. One day, a socket caught fire, and I managed to put it out. When I asked Edward to remove the remains and install a new one, it seemed to him as complex as advanced mathematicshe hadnt the faintest idea how to change a socket. When the bulb needed replacing in our room, he refused out of fear, claiming he absolutely wouldnt do it. So, I fetched a stool and changed the bulb myself. In truth, Edward appeared unable to do anything for himselfnot even willing to learn a basic skill. Why bother, he reasoned, when he could simply call someone and pay for the service? Fine, but Edward was hardly making a fortune, so paying others to do everything wasnt sustainable.
What infuriated me most of all was the way his mother constantly doted on him like he was a young child, and Edward answered her timidly as if he were still a little boy.
“Edward, have you put your socks on? Did you change your underwear? Edward, did you wash properly?” Listening to such conversations made me sick. He was a grown man, yet his mother questioned him about changing his underclothes.
Frankly, I wish to divorce him. But what would I do then? I have no home of my own, the money my parents gave me is long gone. I cannot bear this any longer. How much more must I endure this silence and passivity?
