**The Weight of Roles**
I never thought much about divorce until six months into my marriage, but then the test showed two lines, and the idea drowned in morning sickness.
The first time I saw Edward was in a pub, dragged there by old mates from dance school—just to “let loose for once.” A confident man in an expensive suit sat at the bar, flipping through papers, and he seemed worlds apart.
“You’re too lovely to look so glum,” he said when I was left alone—my friends had dashed off to freshen up.
He kept talking, but I don’t remember the words. Just his voice—like smooth whisky, deep and warm.
Edward was eight years older, part of his family’s cleaning supply business. I caught his eye because I didn’t belong there, like a lost lamb. Fragile, pretty, and—as he soon learned—unworldly. Grew up poor, spent her childhood chasing ballet dreams, then snapped an ankle and became a fitness instructor.
Young, broke, naive. Perfect wife material. He told his mother that same night: “Think I’ve found the girl to give you grandchildren.”
When he proposed three months later, Mum wept with joy. “Finally, you’ll be taken care of!”
His mother, Margaret, inspected me like show livestock. “Good girl. We’ll take her.”
They handled the wedding. “You don’t mind a blue cake?” Margaret asked. “Our company colour.” I smiled. “Whatever you think best.”
The honeymoon was by the sea. On the plane, Edward said, “Mum worries if I’m out of touch. We’ll call twice a day—morning and evening. Take notes or photos—she loves details.”
Home again, my new life began.
“Mum asked me to give you this.” Edward slid me a leather-bound notebook. “Family traditions. Birthdays, anniversaries, trips to the cottage…”
I flipped through:
*5th January – Aunt Jane’s Day. White lilies.
23rd February – Uncle Paul’s turn. Best gift: single malt.
First Sunday of June – family barbecue.
Every Sunday – lunch. Dress code: smart.*
The schedule was rigid.
“How do I fit in my own things?” I asked timidly.
Edward laughed, ruffling my hair. “Your things *are* our things, love.”
A week later, it sank in.
“Where are you off to?” He blocked the door.
“Massage course… we agreed.”
“No. Mum needs help at the shop.”
“But I—”
“Emily,” he tilted my chin gently. “We’re family. This *is* our business. Don’t you want to be part of it?”
At Sunday lunch, Margaret said, “Quit the gym. You did well yesterday, and we’re short a cashier.”
“But—”
“You *do* want to contribute?” She raised a brow, then glanced at Edward. “Or not?”
He nodded, slicing his steak. No discussion. Roles assigned. Carry on.
That night, in the bath, I imagined telling my parents I’d made a mistake—that I wasn’t cut out to be a puppet. But Mum’s voice echoed before I could speak: “Have you lost your mind? Back to nothing? He *provides* for you!”
Then the two lines appeared. So I stayed.
What else was there?
***
By the second baby, I’d perfected Margaret’s roast, stopped flinching at Edward’s “late meetings,” and mastered the art of the glowing smile. “Everything’s fine,” I’d say.
Only my childhood friend Lucy saw through it.
She knew I bought two sets of makeup—one for Margaret’s receipts, one for me. That I sneaked our coffees like a teenager dodging curfew. That “happy wife, happy life” was an exhausting act.
“You’re suffocating!” Lucy hissed once. “You *hate* that shop! She audits your till like you’re a thief!”
“It’s normal,” I shrugged.
“What happened to massage therapy? You wanted to help people!”
“That was years ago.”
“And Edward’s shagging half of London!”
True. I’d suspected, but the proof came at Margaret’s anniversary party. Caught him in the pantry with a client’s wife—adjusting his tie, her hair mussed.
“Means nothing,” he said later, handing me diamond earrings. “You’re smarter than this.”
Of course, I told Lucy. The only one who knew the real me.
I sighed, spinning my teacup. “No choice now. The kids…”
“They *see* this, Em! Think they don’t notice you’re miserable?” She leaned in. “So you screwed up. Forgive yourself and *leave*. Life’s too short to play dead.”
“Maybe I’m just… difficult? Maybe this is how it’s meant to be?” My voice cracked. “House, money, kids…”
“*Meant to be?*” Lucy grabbed my wrist. “You haven’t breathed freely in a decade! Who sobbed on the phone when he ‘missed’ your birthday *again*?”
I laughed bitterly. “Margaret gave me a spa voucher. Said I ‘needed maintenance.’”
Lucy shoved a note in my bag as I left: *“When you’re done being convenient—call.”*
***
Five more years. Staring in the mirror, a new wrinkle by my lips. Kids shouting, Margaret ringing, the dog barking.
And it hit me—*I* wasn’t there anymore. Just the wife, the daughter-in-law, the mother. The girl who loved ballet, feared heights, adored strawberries and cream? Gone.
Yesterday, my daughter brought home a drawing: *“My Family.”*
“That’s Granny”—big—“Dad”—with watch—“me, my brother… and you, Mum.”
I stared at the tiny figure in the corner.
“Why am I… so small?”
“Granny says you’re always in the shadows. Means you’re *humble!*”
That night, I cried—properly—for the first time in years. Remembered Lucy’s offer. That one therapy session she’d nagged me into. The question that broke me:
*“If you had one free day, what would you do?”*
I’d frozen. Then wept. I truly didn’t know.
And never went back.
