*Diary Entry – 12th March 2024*
Oh, my dear ones… listen, let me tell you how life can sweep you from your own home and leave you stranded in unfamiliar walls—not by choice, but sheer exhaustion.
I used to believe family was a shelter. That a husband would be your rock, that warmth in the house came not just from the radiators but from the heart. But… well.
There was a young woman named Eleanor—hardworking as a bee. She juggled her job, kept the flat spotless, cooked dinners, paid the bills. Meanwhile, her husband, Oliver, spent his days sprawled on the sofa, glued to his games. Once, he’d had a job, but then he declared his boss a tyrant, his colleagues unbearable, and quit. Promised he’d find something better soon. Seven months later, that “soon” stretched longer than a dreary English winter.
And then there was his mother, Margaret. Sharp-tongued, that one. Nothing Eleanor cooked was ever right—the porridge too bland, the cream too thick, the roast beef overdone, the Yorkshire puddings soggy. Always coddling her son: “Oliver, darling, don’t settle for just any job. You’re clever, you’ve got education!”
Eleanor carried it all. Earned the wages, cooked the meals, scrubbed the dishes after everyone. Even carried tea and biscuits to the living room because heaven forbid they lift a finger.
How many times did she beg Oliver to take *any* job, even temporary? His answer: “I won’t waste time on trifles. I’m holding out for something proper.” And Margaret would chime in: “Don’t nag him, he’s under enough strain.”
Did anyone listen? Not a chance. Their logic was simple: if she was working, they had enough. That she was dead on her feet? A minor detail.
I’ve lived it myself—remember hauling the weight while gratitude was nowhere to be found. At first, you think, *Just a bit longer, things will change.* Then it’s *I’ll endure for the family.* Until you realise: you’re enduring for people who don’t value you.
Some say it’s my fault I ended up in a care home. Maybe so. Because I didn’t leave when I still had the strength, didn’t say “enough.” I endured until there was nothing left.
And Eleanor? One day, she packed a suitcase… and left. No clue where, but I know why. She was tired of being the cook, the maid, the breadwinner—and still “not good enough” for those who took it all for granted.
So here’s the lesson, my dears: look after yourselves. Because if you don’t, no one else will.
