The Job
In my twenties, I worked for three months at an Italian restaurant, and I hated every minute of it. I had a nasty boss who was never satisfied and always found something to criticize. One busy day, I went above and beyond and everything went smoothly, yet she still snapped at me over a tiny detail.
When her monologue ended, I said nothing, but felt my hand act on its own, as if I wasn’t in control.
I took off my apron, casually threw it in her face, and walked out without looking back. Something similar happened when I left my husband the same way. Being his wife felt just like that toxic job. I started with enthusiasm, tried hard, but was never enough. Then, unexpectedly, my limit was reached. Unlike the job, I spent twenty years with him, and leaving wasn’t easy because of the kids. But I made it, and I haven’t looked back since.
The Cheerful Lawyer
I was walking home when my phone rang. Seeing it was my lawyer made my stomach twist, just like every time we talked over the past months. Each call chipped away my hope of avoiding a court battle with my husband, and this time I braced myself for bad news before answering.
But my lawyer—usually grumpy and busy—greeted me unusually cheerfully. He told me my husband had agreed to the final terms, and all that was left was for me to sign the papers. Hearing those words, a wave of relief washed over me, and I felt like I could float away. I could hardly believe I was finally free.
The Word
I never liked the word "wife." It never made me think of intelligence, strength, or kindness. Instead, it felt tied to obedience, dependence, submission, and vulnerability. When I got married, I thought I’d grow into it and learn to love the reality of being a wife, but I never did. I had to put myself aside and became a supporting character in my own life. I only felt whole again after my divorce. A wonderful feeling washed over me: I was finally not a wife anymore. It was the hardest, most thankless role I ever played—one I never really wanted—and I was glad it was over.
Expectations
When we got married, I had to move out of my beloved apartment because “how would it look if we didn’t live together?” Living together didn’t help our relationship, but I was told to be patient and accommodating since we were now a "household." Even though I ran my own business and worked harder than my husband, everyone expected me to do the laundry, cook, and clean. They shook their heads when I kept pursuing my hobbies and traveling with friends or alone.
When it turned out my husband’s business had been struggling for a while and he hid it from me, everyone expected me to be the understanding wife, since we’d vowed to stick together "in poverty and wealth."
When he started drinking, it was my job to understand, comfort, and support him, after all, we promised to be there "in sickness and in health." After two years of trying and suffering, I finally said I didn’t want to be a wife anymore. After the divorce, I felt like a horse that had been used as a workhorse but could finally run free again.
The Ray
I remember the feeling when the judge declared the divorce final. Euphoric, I rushed out of the building, leaving behind my ex-husband, the pain, and all 17 years wasted with him. As I hurried to my car, I stopped on the sidewalk and took a deep breath—probably the first truly refreshing one in 17 years. At that moment, the sun peeked out between two buildings, and its warm rays caressed my face. I felt it was a sign—a sign that I could finally start living again.
