I am plagued with envy for my sister. Her husband would give her the world, while I struggle under the weight of my entire family.
I am insanely jealous of my younger sister, Julia. Her life resembles a fairy tale where she is the princess and her husband meets her every whim like a faithful knight. Meanwhile, I feel like a worn-out Cinderella, bearing my family’s burdens, suffocating from exhaustion and despair. Sometimes, it seems like I am the most foolish and unhappy woman on Earth. I’ve been with my husband, John, for nearly a decade; we’ve been through a lot together—moments of happiness, but more often dark times full of challenges.
We are currently in one of the darkest periods of our lives. Last year, John decided to change jobs. We were promised the moon: a steady income, good conditions, a bright future. But reality cruelly mocked our hopes. The new position turned out to be a nightmare, worse than the previous one, and now John blames it all on me, as if I alone nudged him into this pit.
“Wasn’t it you who wanted me to change jobs? Well, are you happy now?” he sneers at me whenever he gets the chance.
But how could anyone have predicted this outcome? I just wanted him to grow, for our family to finally crawl out of perpetual poverty. How could I have known it would all turn into a disaster? Now we’re drowning in a financial pit. My salary is the only thing keeping us afloat because John’s pay has been delayed for several months. We’re barely making ends meet, and each day I feel this burden pressing down even more.
Last spring, my phone broke. The repair would have cost almost as much as a new one, so we put off buying a replacement. For months, I struggled with an old tablet until I had to pawn it. Almost all my gold jewelry, those few items that reminded me of better days, were handed over as well. We urgently needed money, and I gave up everything I had. And John’s belongings? No, those remained untouched—only my sacrifices were put into action.
Julia, my younger sister, took pity on me and gave me her old phone so I could stay connected somehow. I was doing everything I could so my family wouldn’t go hungry. Yes, John works too, sometimes taking odd jobs, but he does it so reluctantly, it feels like I’m forcing him into hard labor. It takes constant persuasion, almost begging on my knees.
Recently, Julia’s husband, Andrew, let slip that she demanded the latest iPhone for Christmas. I felt a burning envy igniting inside—a feeling I’m ashamed of, but can’t stifle. They rent a flat in Manchester, just as John and I do, but everything is different for them. Julia has Andrew wrapped around her finger: he works evenings as a driver, travels for work, saves money, and caters to her every need. Her salary is her little personal stash, spent solely on herself. Last year, she simply walked into a boutique and bought herself a lavish coat because she felt like it.
“A man should take care of the living expenses, food, and other responsibilities,” she confidently declares like a queen.
Julia is a true beauty. She spends all her money on herself—eyelash extensions, perfect manicures, well-groomed brows, stylish hairdos, fashionable clothes, and other little feminine joys. Beside her, I feel like a drab shadow—worn out, unkempt, forgotten. I can’t even recall the last time I visited a hairdresser, let alone get a manicure. Everything I earn goes to the family, and John doesn’t even think of bringing home a bit extra. Any extra work or change has to be coaxed out of him like extracting a tooth.
The other day, I received my paycheck, and John once again insinuated that we’d have to pay for rent and groceries from my pocket. I’m torn apart by frustration: he doesn’t even try to change anything, doesn’t make any effort for us.
“You know money’s tight, the salary’s delayed again,” he grumbled when I asked what he would get me for my birthday.
Yet, if he doesn’t get a gift for a holiday, he pouts like a child. I always try to keep him happy, find something to cheer him up, so he doesn’t feel neglected. And him? I don’t expect expensive phones or grand surprises from him—happiness isn’t in material things. But even a simple token of care, a small gesture, is too much to ask for. He simply doesn’t get it.
I used to think our troubles were temporary, just a bad patch that would soon pass. But now I see it’s not a phase, it’s a whole way of life. I tried talking to John; it led to arguments, but he just throws up his hands: “The pay’s delayed, what can I do?”
“If we had children, how would we survive then?” I asked in desperation one day.
He said nothing. And I look at Julia, consumed by envy. I’m embarrassed by these feelings, but they’re stronger than me. Her husband pampers her, showers her with gifts, buys everything she wants, while I’m still using her discarded old phone. Why do some women, like Julia, get everything? Is it just a fortunate fate? Or is it about the men? Why is life a continuous celebration for some, a simple click of the fingers away, while mine is endless gray gloom?
