Until I turned 48, I never imagined life could be any different—full of freedom, new horizons, and a completely fresh perspective. No one ever told a girl from the countryside that she could dream of something beyond duty and obligation. On the contrary, I was raised to believe a woman must be a dutiful wife, sacrifice herself for her family, endure every hardship, and never complain.
When I married Steven at 19, my path was set. Children, housework, cooking, laundry—no room for ambition. Summers spent toiling in the garden to outdo last year’s harvest. Doesn’t it sound like a script written by someone else? “Hang in there, it’ll get easier,” they’d say. My mother and grandmother were raised the same way. Work until you drop—rest comes in old age.
By 20, I had a son, and a daughter followed a year later. From then on, I ceased to exist as a woman to my husband—he made it clear he wanted no more children. I became a servant without pay. No one expected me to love our children—just raise them to be helpful around the house. Now I ask myself—what was it all for? What meaning did that life hold?
Back then, I never questioned it. I assumed everyone lived this way. Steven fixed appliances for a living, but I never saw a penny of his earnings. His work wasn’t physically demanding, yet at home, he did nothing. Only when I was completely overwhelmed would he grudgingly lend a hand. Meanwhile, he stayed out late drinking with his mates. Maybe that’s why he died so young—at 42, the full weight of the house and children fell on me.
I tried to find another man—kind, hardworking, someone who’d be a proper partner. But luck wasn’t on my side. Not all men are drinkers, yet that’s all I seemed to find. Thankfully, my children grew up and left for university in Manchester. I knew their chances were slim after a village school, but what could I give them? A woman from a village near Birmingham, penniless and powerless.
Then my friend Emma, one of the few who stayed close, suggested a different path. “Save up a bit, learn a language, and go work abroad,” she said. She had no children; mine were grown—what did we have to lose? After a little thought, I agreed.
I had no other choice. Three years later, Emma and I left for Spain, hoping for a better life. I met new people, saw the world, and had to adapt. But believe me—compared to what I’d endured at home, it wasn’t half as hard, at least not physically.
Mentally, it was tougher. My children begged me to come back, demanded help with their problems, expected me to mind their children. But something inside me refused to give in. I stayed. I found a man who appreciates me, a cosy flat, and life finally took on colour.
I never imagined I’d drive a car. Steven, even on his best days, forbade it. Now I zip around on a motorbike. A trip to the seaside once felt like an impossible dream—now I prefer the pool, even though the beach is just a half-hour walk. Why bother? I can sunbathe in my own garden. Food? In a year, I gained ten pounds, indulging in delicious dishes, even seafood. Then I lost fifteen, eating properly and working with a trainer.
I don’t have to fret about ruining clothes, scrubbing floors daily, or cooking enormous pots of food to last the week. Modern appliances, fair prices, and hope for a better tomorrow have freed me from those worries. I remember dressing up for holidays to meet Steven’s relatives—country folk who dragged out their finest outfits from the wardrobe. Now it all seems absurd.
Out-of-fashion clothes? Toss them—they’re just things. I used to judge girls with piercings or even earrings. Last year, I got a tattoo—small, on my wrist. Now my view is this: do as you like, just don’t bother others.
Emma and I live in different towns now but meet occasionally. She has her own children, her own life. Mine still can’t accept it. They don’t want a mother—they want a maid for their kids, a cook, a cleaner. It’s clear from our conversations, and I won’t lie about it. I thought of sending them money, but their demands grew too much, so I stopped.
I know no one will hand me a glass of water in old age. But times have changed. By the time I’m elderly, my children will be too busy with their own grandchildren to spare me a thought. Back then, men like Steven died before 50—children were your only security. Now? Old age means solitude. Is that selfish? Maybe. But it’s the truth. I’ve made my choice. Let them judge me—I don’t care. Live even a fraction of the life I did for years, and then we’ll talk.