Margaret sighed deeply as she stared at another cookbook her husband had carelessly tossed onto the kitchen table. Two months ago, she had retired, eagerly anticipating her long-awaited freedom. She had imagined sitting in the cosy parlour of her home in Manchester, surrounded by colourful threads and fabrics, creating beautiful handcrafted pieces. But her dreams had shattered against harsh reality like fragile glass under a hammer’s blow.
Her husband, Richard, seemed to have become a different man since her retirement. He acted as though her life now belonged solely to him. Every morning, he demanded new, elaborate dishes that left Margaret exhausted. Simple stews and pies no longer satisfied him—now he wanted truffle-infused risottos or five-cheese soufflés. He would browse recipe websites and announce without consulting her, “You’ll make this tomorrow!”
Richard had spent years managing a large factory in the city, accustomed to giving orders and controlling everything around him. But at home? At home, he had become a tyrant. Each evening, he drafted a to-do list for Margaret as if she were his personal assistant rather than his wife. “You’re retired—you’ve got loads of time!” he’d snap whenever she objected. His words cut deep, leaving her feeling as though her own dreams meant nothing.
Margaret tried to argue, timidly reminding him she had her own passions. But his sharp retorts silenced her: “What, have you nothing better to do? I’m giving you purpose, and you’re still complaining!” She felt trapped, as if her identity was being erased and replaced with the role of a dutiful servant. Even her beloved needlework, which had once brought her joy, now gathered dust in a box—there simply wasn’t time.
Worse still, Richard insisted she fetch the morning papers every day. “I need the latest edition with my breakfast coffee!” he’d say, ignoring the weariness in her face. Rain, snow, or bitter cold—it didn’t matter. She had to rush down the street so he could grumble over political columns about the state of the world. Margaret felt less like a wife and more like a machine, endlessly fulfilling his demands.
Eventually, she began secretly browsing job listings. Any work seemed like an escape from this suffocating control. She longed to feel needed, significant—more than just an extension of her husband. But when Richard discovered she was job-hunting, he erupted: “Your priority is looking after me, not some foolish job! I come first!” His words echoed in her mind, deepening her despair.
Why did men like Richard believe they were the centre of their wives’ universes? Why assume her life must revolve around his whims? Did she not deserve her own dreams, her own joys? Was she not worthy of being valued as a person, not just a cook or a maid? These questions burned inside her, refusing to quieten.
Margaret understood caring for a loved one was important, especially if they were ill or helpless. But Richard was healthy, full of energy—yet he demanded total submission. She remembered tending to her ailing mother, a choice made from love. But being a servant to a husband who took her efforts for granted was humiliating. It felt as though he saw her not as a woman, but as a machine without thoughts or feelings.
If someone treated her with such smothering “care,” Margaret would feel insulted—as if her independence, strength, and very vitality were being stripped away. She refused to be anyone’s shadow. Yet each day under Richard’s demands chipped away at her spirit.
Last night, staring at yet another list of chores, Margaret realised: she couldn’t go on like this. She wanted to live, breathe, create. She wanted work that would restore her dignity—whether in a small office or a quaint shop, anywhere she could be herself, not her husband’s puppet. Closing the job-search tab, she whispered, “I’m tired, but I’m still alive. And I will find a way back to my own life.”
The lesson was clear: no one should surrender their identity for another’s demands. True love nurtures freedom, not control.
