There was barely any room for my own family, let alone for us to do something together as a family, and certainly not for me as an individual. The relationship had become hollow, stripped of everything it once was. Wordfather and I lived like brother and sister—strangers who happened to share the same house. There were no deep conversations, no sense of connection. The connection I would later find with Professor Son and Riddle Daughter simply did not exist between us in those years. It felt as though I was slowly disappearing, piece by piece, dissolving into the emptiness of our shared life. Every argument circled back to the same source: his mother—her interference, her expectations, the quiet but persistent tyranny of her influence.
His mother was always presented as the best at everything, or at least that was the narrative that was constantly reinforced. I remember vividly how, after the birth of my Professor Son, I received an old camera from my father. It was a simple gesture, but it meant a great deal to me. Photography spoke to me—it gave me a way to see and capture the world through my own lens. When I proudly showed my first photos to Wordfather, his reaction was not what I had hoped for. Instead of encouragement or curiosity, he told me that photography was too expensive as a hobby. Those words lingered, as if my enthusiasm had been quietly suffocated before it had the chance to grow. Much later, during an argument, the real reason surfaced: I could have hobbies, just not photography, because that belonged to his mother. It was as though I had unknowingly crossed an invisible boundary—one that had never been spoken of, yet was strictly enforced. His mother tolerated no competition, not even from me, and once again I felt myself shrink, as if another small piece of my identity had been taken away.
His sister was no different. She loved cooking and was always ready with the latest recipes. Cooking had never been my strongest suit, but I had my own dishes that I made with care and that turned out well. My famous tuna salad, for example, was something I was proud of. When I once made it for my mother-in-law’s birthday, it was a success. The family enjoyed it, while his sister’s couscous salad remained untouched. For a brief moment, it felt like a victory, a small confirmation that I, too, had something to offer. But apparently, there were complaints behind my back, because in the years that followed, I was never asked again to bring or make anything. It was as though I had been quietly put back in my place, my small moment of success erased as quickly as it had appeared. These subtle moments of being diminished, though never explosive or openly confrontational, felt like small cuts that slowly eroded my confidence over time, and they affected me more deeply than anyone might have realised.
Everything had to be done her way, as though her will was law and I was merely a shadow in my own home. We tried relationship therapy again, but it felt like speaking to a wall. He didn’t see the problem—didn’t want to see it, or perhaps it was easier for him to ignore it altogether. And I… I was exhausted. Deeply, painfully exhausted. The loneliness and sadness weighed heavily on me, and more and more often a thought crept into my mind: Is this the life I want? Is this the future I see for myself and my children? Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the idea of leaving began to take root, like a small opening in the darkness that had enveloped us.
Wordfather and his mother were inseparable, their bond seemingly unbreakable. They spoke every day, early in the morning during his two-hour drive to work, and again in the evening on his way back. Everything was discussed—his work, daily matters, and yes, our marriage as well. But what was shared was always his version of events. It felt as though our marriage was an open book to her, but it was his book, written in his words, shaped by his perspective. It had been this way from the very beginning of our relationship, and it seemed as though it would never change.
Then, one day, a new phase began for him. He started job-hopping, clearly searching, restless and dissatisfied with where he was. And then, out of nowhere, he came to me with a statement that shook me. “Now it’s your turn to work full-time,” he said, as if it were the most logical step in the world. “I’m going to retrain.” I was left speechless. How could he expect that of me? My body, already worn down by years of pregnancies, caregiving, and daily strain, simply could not handle that anymore. It felt as though he was completely overlooking my reality, as if he didn’t see what I carried every single day. In his mind, it all sounded so simple. The children were older now, more independent, no longer requiring physical care, and to him that meant I could take on everything else—as though my role in maintaining the household and raising the children hadn’t already been enough.
“How?” I asked, genuinely bewildered. How was I supposed to suddenly work full-time with my health steadily declining? And I knew that even if I somehow managed it, the household would still fall entirely on my shoulders, because he contributed almost nothing at home. His solution was as cold as it was practical. “Maybe you can apply for disability benefits,” he said. “It’s a congenital condition, after all.” He had already mapped everything out in his mind. He would be earning less during his retraining, which meant that my car—the small car I had only had for six months, the one that had finally given me a sense of freedom—would have to go as well.
The ground seemed to fall away beneath me. That little car had been my escape, my way of reaching beyond the limitations of cycling everywhere with the children. I tried to explain my fear of having to go through the medical system again, something I wanted to avoid at all costs, but he brushed my concerns aside. “You don’t have to deal with that,” he said. “I’ll fill in the paperwork.” When the assessment came, I was immediately declared unfit for work—a harsh reality I had not yet been ready to fully accept. In fact, I learned that I had been entitled to those benefits since I was seventeen, something I had never known. I had always been good at hiding my pain, at pushing aside what my body was going through and living in my head instead, ignoring the physical reality. But that had become a trap I kept falling into, a painful cycle of trial and error in which I was slowly learning to recognise and respect my own limits.
Letting go of that car was incredibly hard. Returning to the bicycle, bags hanging from the handlebars, made me realise just how much I had lost.
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