“You ought to help—you’re a wife, not a stranger!” Those words were spoken a week before our anniversary…
The June morning began peacefully. In the spacious kitchen, Eleanor slowly brewed her coffee, savoring the rich aroma that filled every corner of their London flat. She cherished these quiet moments—before the world demanded more from her than she could possibly give.
Edward, her husband, appeared in the doorway, impeccably dressed, with the faint weariness of a busy man. He muttered a brisk “Good morning,” reached for his cup, and took a sip before delivering the news:
“Mum wants to know if you can take her to the doctor’s tomorrow. She’s got an early appointment.”
Eleanor stilled. Tomorrow was the presentation she’d spent two weeks preparing for. Missing it would mean throwing away any chance of promotion.
“Edward, you know I can’t—”
“But it’s Mum,” he interrupted, disapproval sharp in his voice. “You’re her daughter-in-law, not some stranger. Family helps family.”
First, it was her mother-in-law’s request. Then, a call from Margaret, Edward’s sister—she desperately needed a “break” from the children. Just as Eleanor had planned to visit her own parents, whom she hadn’t seen in a month.
“Please,” Margaret whined. “You’re so kind. You can see your parents another time.”
Eleanor relented again. Again, no “thank you” followed.
A week later, her father-in-law, Charles, rang:
“Ellie, love, my car’s given up the ghost. Could I borrow yours for a fortnight?”
“But how will I get to work? My meetings are across town—”
“Take the Tube. You’re young, you’ll manage. We’re family.”
Again—”you ought to.” Again—”we’re family.”
Later, when she earned her promotion and excitedly told Edward, dreaming of a holiday, he merely shrugged.
“Mum and Dad are doing up the house. Lucy’s wedding’s coming up. Now that you’re earning more, you’ll help, won’t you?”
Eleanor could scarcely believe her ears.
“So we’re canceling everything—again—for your family? These were our dreams!”
“Well, who else will? You’re not a stranger.”
Those words echoed louder each time in her mind. In that “not a stranger” lay no love—only obligation.
Then, one evening, a week before their anniversary, Edward crossed the line completely:
“You have a duty to help my family. You’re my wife!”
Eleanor stared at him in silence. Before her sat a man who saw her not as a companion, not as a beloved woman, but as a function—someone bound to serve every need of those around her.
That night, she did not sleep. By morning, she packed a suitcase. And left.
She returned to the little flat she’d once bought with her own savings. It became her sanctuary.
Three months passed. Edward called, asked to meet. Said he understood now, promised to change.
“Too late,” she replied.
He had missed the point entirely. It wasn’t the refusal to help that had shattered them. It was that he had ceased to see her as a person. The care, the support, the family they’d once had—all had dissolved into endless demands where she was only ever “supposed to.”
He even forgot their anniversary.
That day, Eleanor bought herself a bouquet of peonies, strolled along the cobbled lanes of Covent Garden, and that evening, sitting on a bench by the river, she felt—for the first time in years—that the air in her lungs was lighter. Not because life was easier. But because now, she was living for herself.
The next morning, she bought a ticket. One way—to Paris. Alone. Because she no longer needed to be convenient. It was enough, at last, to be happy.
