**Diary Entry 14th June, 2023**
Women are meant to endurethats what John always believed, riding roughshod over his patient wife. But one day, shed had enough.
In a quiet market town nestled between rolling fields and ancient woodlands, lived a man named John. He was broad-shouldered, his face rough-hewn with thick brows and a permanent scowl, as though everyone beneath him deserved his disdain. He worked as a mechanic at the local garage, earning just enough to get by, spending weekends at the pub, barking orders at home, convinced he was master of his householdnot through merit, but because hed decided it was “the natural order of things.”
His wife was Emily. A small, quiet woman with dark hair always tied back in a simple knot. At twenty-eight, she looked a decade older. Her eyes were weary, yet held a quiet kindnessthe kind that had absorbed years of silent suffering like earth soaking up autumn rain.
Theyd married young. Back then, Emily had been bright, laughing, dreaming of becoming a primary school teacher. But life had other plans. She fell pregnant, and John declared, “Leave the studying. Raise the kids, keep the housethats a womans job.” She believed him, shelved her exams, bore a son, then years later, a daughter. The teachers dream faded into memory.
With each passing year, Johns conviction hardened: *Women are meant to endure.*
Hed say it to his mates over pints at the pub, even mutter it aloud while Emily scrubbed the floors of their modest home:
“A wife isnt meant to thinkshes meant to work. Keep the house tidy, food on the table, kids clothed. If shes got dreams? Let her swallow them. Thats just the way of the world.”
Emily never argued. She nodded, lips pressed into a faint, resigned smile. She cooked, cleaned, soothed the children when Johns shouting made them cry. She had long accepted being part of the furnitureunseen, expected, taken for granted.
John treated her like a reliable old carno maintenance, no thanks, just use until it broke. He left muddy boots in the hallway, demanded dinner sharp at seven, shouted if the soup was too salty. He never helped with the children, never asked about school, never attended parents evenings. But if their son failed a test? “Cant you do *anything* right?”
At night, while he slumped before the telly with a lager, Emily stood at the sink, scouring pans, her back aching, catching her reflection in the rain-streaked windowblurred, ghostlike, as though shed already vanished.
Then, one evening, something inside her snapped.
It started small.
John came home late, fuming. The kids were asleep; Emily reheated leftoversbangers and mash for the second night running, money tight as ever.
“Wheres my bloody slippers?” he bellowed, slamming the door.
“By the bed, where they always are,” she murmured.
“Theyre not there!” He hurled his toolbox to the floor. “Useless!”
She fetched them silently, handed them over.
“About time,” he sneered, then scowled at his plate. “Whys this cold?”
“Its just off the stove”
“Dont backchat me! Heat it *properly*!”
Her hands shook as she carried the plate back. Tears wellednot from pain, but from years of swallowing her worth.
Then*click.* Like a lock turning.
She stared at the bubbling pot, then at the carving knife beside it. One swift motion, and the misery would end. No more shouting, no more being nobody.
Thena small voice from the hallway:
“Mummy, Im thirsty”
It was Lily, five years old, in her bunny pyjamas, hair tousled from sleep. Emily turned, saw those wide, trusting eyes, and knew: if she broke now, whod protect her? Whod teach Lily she didnt have to disappear?
She turned off the hob. Hugged her daughter. “Back to bed, love. Ill bring you water.”
Then, she served John his reheated meal. Sat across from him, silent.
But inside, something had shifted.
The next day, she walked into the town libraryfirst time in a decade. Borrowed a book on toxic relationships, read about emotional abuse, about women who stayed because they feared the unknown.
*You deserve respect. You deserve boundaries. You dont have to endure pain.*
She wept over those words, then copied them into her worn notebook.
A week later, she found an online support group. Women like hershoulders slumped, stories of belittlement, fear. One wrote: *”I left. Now Im training to be a counsellor. He begs me backI laugh.”*
Emily closed the laptop. Dug out her old university ID. Stared at the girl in the photobright-eyed, books in hand, dreams intact. She traced the faded image.
“I was her once.”
Change came slowly. She stopped flinching at his shouts. Began saying, “Im tired. Wait.”
John was baffled, then furious. “Who the hell dyou think you are?”
She met his glare. “Not your servant.”
He fell silent, gaping as if shed grown horns.
Secretly, she enrolled in online bookkeeping courses, studying nights while he snored. When he found out, he scoffed:
“Whod hire *you*?”
“Myself,” she said.
Six months later, she passed her exams. Landed a remote job. Opened her own bank account. Saved for a flattwo bedrooms, where she could turn on lights without fear.
One night, John staggered in drunk. “Wheres my dinner?”
“Make it yourself,” she said.
He grabbed her wrist, snarling.
She didnt struggle. Just looked him dead in the eye. “Let go. Or Ill call the police.”
He released her. But from then on, he watched her like a cornered animal.
Two months later, she moved out. Filed for divorce.
In court, John slurred about “abandoning family.” The magistratea steely-eyed womanreviewed Emilys medical records (chronic stress), neighbour testimonies (his rages), and ruled: the children stayed with her. John would pay maintenance.
Emily exhaleda breath held for ten years.
Her new flat was small but bright. She hung curtains, filled a bookshelf. The children laughed, unafraid.
One summer evening, sipping tea on the balcony, her phone rang. A friend from the support group.
“How are you?”
“Happy,” Emily said. “Truly happy.”
“And him?”
“Came by. Said women are meant to endure, not run.”
She laughed softly. “I told him: *Women are meant to live. To love freely. And if you cant love without cruelty, you dont deserve to stand at my door.*”
A year passed. Emily got promoted, began teacher training part-time. Lily drew sunlit paintings, said, “Mummy, youre beautiful. I want to be like you.”
One day, John camesober, aged. “I was wrong,” he muttered. “Real strength isnt in rulingits in respect.”
She studied himno hate, no pity. Just clarity.
“I forgive you. But dont come back. Im not your shadow anymore.”
He left. She closed the door, faced the hallway mirror.
Her eyesno longer hollowglowed with something unshakable. *Dignity.*
Years later, her children grown, Emily wrote a book: *Women Arent Meant to Endure.*
In it, she told her truth: how easily one vanishes into silence; how hard it is to claw back. How patience can cost a soul.
Letters poured infrom women whod found courage, even men: *”I never realised. Ill do better.”*
The last page read:
*”Im no hero. Just a woman who finally said: Enough.*
*Enough fear. Enough silence.*
*You deserve happinesseven if the world insists otherwise.*
*Freedom starts with one word. One choice.*
*One look in the mirror, and knowing:*
*You were made to live.*
*So live.”*
