**Diary Entry 23rd October**
I once believed women were made to endurethat was my fathers mantra, and for years, I saw it in my own marriage. But then, one day, she stopped enduring.
In a quiet market town nestled among rolling fields and dense woods, there lived a man named Richard. He was in his forties, broad-shouldered, with a rough face and a perpetual scowl as if everyone around him fell short. He worked as a mechanic at the local garage, earning a modest wage, drank too much on weekends, and ruled his home with an iron fistnot because hed earned respect, but because he assumed it was his right.
His wife was Emily. Small, soft-spoken, with dark hair always pinned back neatly. At twenty-eight, she looked a decade older, her eyes weary but still kindthe sort of eyes that had absorbed years of hardship like the earth soaking up rain.
Theyd married young. Back then, Emily had been bright-eyed, full of dreamsshed wanted to be a primary school teacher. But life had other plans. She fell pregnant, and Richard had declared, *”Your place is here, raising children. Thats a womans duty.”* So shed set aside her studies, had a son, then a daughter, and never became that teacher.
With each passing year, Richard grew more convinced of his own doctrine: *Women are made to endure.* Hed say it to his mates at the pub, to himself, even to Emily as she scrubbed the floors.
*”A womans not a personshes a workhorse. Feed the kids, keep the house tidy, and stop whinging about what you want.”*
Emily never argued. She cooked, cleaned, soothed the children when Richards shouting frightened them. She was background noisethe silent force that made a home, yet went unnoticed.
He treated her like a reliable old carno maintenance, no gratitude, just use until it broke. He left muddy boots in the hall, demanded dinner by seven sharp, berated her if the stew was too salty. He never helped with the children, never asked about their schoolwork, but if their son failed a test? *”Youre not watching him properly!”*
At night, while Richard drank beer in front of the telly, Emily stood at the sink, scrubbing pans until her back ached. Sometimes shed catch her reflection in the dark windowfaded, blurred by rain, as if shed already vanished.
Then, one evening, something inside her snapped.
It started small. Richard came home late, furious. The children were asleep, the kitchen clean. Emily reheated leftoversbangers and mash, the last of their money before payday.
*”Where are my slippers?”* he barked.
*”By the bed,”* she whispered.
*”Theyre not there!”* He hurled his toolbag across the room. *”Find them!”*
She fetched them from under the bed, handed them over without a word.
*”Finally,”* he sneered. *”At least youre good for something.”*
She set his plate down. The food was steaming, but he shoved it back. *”Its cold. Heat it properly!”*
Her hands shook as she carried it back to the hob. Tears wellednot from pain, but exhaustion. The crushing weight of being invisible.
Then, something clicked.
As she stood over the bubbling pot, her gaze fell on the carving knife beside her. One swift motion, and it would all end. No more shouting. No more humiliation.
But then
*”Mum can I have some water?”*
Her daughter, little Sophie, five years old in her dinosaur pyjamas, stood in the doorway, blinking sleepily.
Emily turned. Saw those trusting eyes.
And she understood: if she broke now, who would protect Sophie? Who would teach her she didnt have to be a shadow in her own home?
She switched off the hob. Hugged her daughter. *”Back to bed, love. Ill bring you water.”*
Then she served Richard his reheated meal. Sat across from him, silent.
But inside? Something had shifted.
The next day, she went to the library for the first time in years. Borrowed a book on toxic relationships. Read about emotional abuse, about women who stayed because they feared the unknown.
*”You deserve respect. You have the right to boundaries.”*
She cried over those words. Copied them into a worn notebook.
A week later, she found an online support group. Women like hertrapped, weary, afraid. One wrote: *”I left my husband after years of being called useless. Now Im training to be a counsellor. He begs me to come back. I just laugh.”*
Emily stared at the screen. Then she dug out her old university ID. The girl in the photobright, hopefulwas unrecognisable.
*”I was like that once,”* she whispered.
Change came slowly. She stopped smiling when he shouted. Began saying, *”Im tired. Do it yourself.”*
He was baffled, then furious. *”Who do you think you are?”*
*”Not your servant,”* she said calmly.
He fell silent.
She secretly enrolled in online accounting courses, studied at night while he slept. When he found out, he scoffed: *”Whod hire you?”*
*”I would,”* she said.
Six months later, she passed her exams. Landed a remote job. Opened a bank account, saved every penny. Dreamed of a tiny flat where she could turn on the lights without fear.
One night, Richard came home drunk. No dinner waited.
*”Wheres my food?”* he roared.
*”Make it yourself,”* she said. *”I worked all day.”*
He grabbed her arm, snarling.
She met his gaze. *”Let go. Or Ill call the police.”*
He released her. But from that night, he watched her like a stranger.
Two months later, she rented a flat. Small, but hers. Filed for divorce.
Richard showed up to court drunk, ranting about *”a womans duty.”* But the judgea stern womansaw the medical records (chronic stress), the neighbour testimonies (yelling, chaos), and ruled: the children stayed with Emily. Hed pay maintenance.
She didnt cry. Just exhaled, as if shed been holding her breath for years.
In her new flat, she hung curtains, bought a bookshelf. The children laughed, unafraid.
One summer evening, her support group friend called. *”How are you?”*
*”Good,”* Emily said, sipping tea on the balcony. *”Really good.”*
*”Has he bothered you?”*
*”He came by. Said women are made to endure.”*
She smiled. *”I told himwomen are made to live. To be happy. And if you cant love without humiliation, you dont deserve to stand at my door.”*
A year passed. Emily got a promotion, enrolled in teacher training. The children thrived.
One day, Richard visitedsober, aged. *”I was wrong,”* he muttered. *”Real strength isnt control. Its respect.”*
She studied him. *”I forgive you. But dont come back. Im not your shadow anymore.”*
He left.
She looked in the mirror. Her eyesno longer exhaustedheld something new. Something unbreakable.
Years later, she wrote a book: *Women Arent Made to Endure.* It became a bestseller. Letters poured infrom women whod found courage, from men whod learned better.
On the last page, she wrote:
*”Im no hero. Just a woman who finally said: enough. Enough pain. Enough silence. You deserve happiness. Even if the world says endure, you have the right to say no.
Freedom starts with one word. One decision. One honest look in the mirror.
Be yourself. Breathe. Live.”*
**Lesson learned:** Endurance isnt virtue when it costs your soul. Sometimes, the bravest thing is to walk away.
