I’ve been through hell, got divorced, and found a new self—now I’m truly living.
Sometimes life drags you through darkness, burdened with bags full of pain, shame, exhaustion, and fear. But then comes a day when you simply drop them to the ground, straighten your shoulders, and take a step forward. A step into the unknown. Into freedom. Into yourself. That’s what happened to me. Looking back, I feel like the woman I was before my divorce was a completely different person. Forgotten, lost, and broken.
My name is Laura. I’m from Norwich, and I’m now 52. A long time ago, I got married, not for love, but because it was expected. In our community back then, a woman over 25 without a husband was seen as damaged goods, a disgrace to the family. The pressure was relentless—parents, aunts, neighbors. I couldn’t even go to the movies with a friend without facing questions like, “Do you have a boyfriend? Is he serious? When’s the wedding?”
So, I got married. To an old schoolmate, Stephen. He was ordinary, perhaps too much so. No special traits or ambitions. But he had a passport and a ring. My family sighed with relief. Happiness, however, did not follow.
Then our daughters were born, one after the other. That was my joy. I adored being a mom, sewing dresses for them, doing their hair. That was my world. Home, the girls, a needle and thread—I breathed through that. But money was disastrously short. My husband neither wanted to work nor knew how. He switched jobs, quit, searched again, and drank in between, sinking deeper each time.
At first, I endured. Then I suggested, “Let me start sewing at home; at least we’ll have some income.” He got furious: “A woman should stay home, not provide for the family!” Soon there was no one to talk to—he was drinking heavily. Bottles piled up in the cupboard, like monuments to my dashed hopes.
Then came the crisis. The late ’90s. No jobs to be had. Our eldest daughter was getting ready for graduation, the youngest was on the brink of teenage years, and home was nothing but a drunk husband and an empty fridge. The first time he attacked me, yelling and with raised hands, I realized it was over. This wasn’t a family; it was survival.
The next day, another blow: he grabbed my throat, growling in my ear, “Where are you hiding the money, you bitch?” I could barely breathe. My eldest saved me—she rushed in, pulled him off, and called the neighbors. They threw him out. Then came court. Divorce. Division of nothing—there was nothing to divide.
It was just me left. A woman. With two daughters. Bruises on my body and a shattered soul. In a town with no future. But—I remained. I lived. I got back on my feet.
My girls became my wings. The eldest went to night school and started working as a waitress. I took out my sewing machine and got back to work. I stitched, patched, refitted, and remade clothing. People weren’t spending much on clothes then, wearing whatever they could, so I quickly built up a client base.
We gradually emerged from the struggle.
Then—a miracle. My daughter met a foreigner. A kind, gentle fellow. They had a modest wedding and moved away. Within a year, I became a grandmother. They sent us support. We could afford meat. I was finally able to sleep at night.
The youngest did well, too. Studied hard. Eventually, she got into university in the USA—with help from her sister, both financially and with advice. I was alone. Yes, it was hard, my heart ached. But I knew—it was for their future.
One day my eldest called and said:
“Mom, you deserve a holiday. Do you have your passport in the drawer? Check it. I’ve booked you on a cruise.”
At first, I thought I’d misheard. A cruise? For me? I found myself on board a massive ship, where everything sparkled and smelled of the exotic, where women laughed freely and men looked you in the eye. I didn’t meet a prince there. But I found… myself. The real me.
Standing on the deck at night, watching the water split beneath the hull, I thought: I survived. I did it. I left the one who broke me and built a new home. I wasn’t just living—I began dreaming again.
After returning, I decided not to stop. I picked up a camera. Now my hobby is traveling around England and taking photographs. I go with friends, we explore small towns, nature reserves, historic churches. I take pictures—and send them to my daughters. They write back: “Mom, you’re the strongest. And the happiest.”
I’m not rich now, but I have everything. Freedom. A smile. And belief in myself.
Those dark years are behind me. Ahead lies the light, new paths, and the true me.
