Im forty-six now, and if someone were to look at my life from the outside, theyd probably say that everythings perfectly fine. I married youngat twenty-fourto a diligent, responsible man. I had two children in quick succession, at twenty-six and twenty-eight. I gave up my university degree because the timetables just didnt fit, the children were little, and besides, there would be time for that later. We never had any major rows or dramatic fall-outs. Everything simply went the way it was meant to.
For years, my routine was unchanging. Id be up before everyone else, make breakfast, tidy the house, then head to work. I always made it back in time to tackle the chorescooking, laundry, cleaning. Weekends meant family gatherings, birthday parties, commitments. I was always present, the one taking responsibility. If something was missing, I sorted it. If someone needed help, I was there. I never once stopped to ask myself if I wanted anything different.
My husband, William, has never been a bad person. We had dinner together, watched the telly, went to bed. He wasnt particularly affectionate, but he was never cold. He didnt ask for much, but he didnt complain, either. Our conversations mostly revolved around bills, the children, daily chores.
One ordinary Tuesday, I sat down in the lounge, in the quiet, and realised I had nothing that needed doing. Not because everything was perfect, but because, for once, no one needed me. I looked around and understood that Id supported this home for years but now, I didnt know what to do with myself inside it.
That day, I opened a drawer stuffed with old paperwork. I found certificates, unfinished courses, lists of ideas scribbled in notebooks, projects put aside for later. I sifted through photos from when I was youngerbefore I became a wife, before I was a mother, before I was the fixer of everything. It wasnt nostalgia that hit me. It was something worse: the feeling that Id achieved everything, but never stopped to ask if it was what I wanted.
I began to notice things Id always thought were normal. No one ever asked how I was. Even if I came home exhausted, the expectation was still on me to pick up the slack. If William said he didnt fancy a family gathering, everyone took it in stride, but if I didnt want to go, it was just assumed Id go anyway. My opinion existed, but it carried no weight. There werent screaming matches or fights, but there was no space left for me, either.
One evening at supper, I mentioned that Id like to resume my studies or try something new. William looked at me, a bit baffled, and said, But why now? He didnt mean it badly; he said it as someone genuinely not understanding why something that always functioned should have to change. The children stayed silent. There were no argumentsno one forbade me anything. Yet I immediately knew my role was so clearly fixed that stepping outside of it was simply awkward.
Im still married. I havent left. I havent packed a suitcase or made any irrevocable decisions. But Im not kidding myself anymore. I know that, for over twenty years, Ive existed to hold together a life where I was necessary, but never the centre of the story.
How do you piece yourself back together after that?
