For years, Sarah bent over backwards to please Mark. She had become a master at sidestepping his prickly moods, sacrificing her own desires to knit together the frayed ends of their marriage. But one day, something deep inside her snapped.
Sarah had spent the morning meticulously preparing Mark’s favorite breakfast—eggs sunny-side up and pancakes just the right shade of golden brown. She knew he’d come down grumbling if there wasn’t coffee ready, and despite her personal disdain for the bitter brew, the pot was already steaming when he entered the kitchen.
Mark sat down, barely acknowledging her presence, and began eating in silence. “This egg is too runny,” he muttered, pushing the plate away with a look of disdain.
Sarah felt the familiar sting prick her eyes. “I can make another batch,” she offered, trying to keep her tone light.
“Whatever,” he shrugged, engrossed in his phone, already dismissing her existence.
This was how their mornings often went. Sarah had grown accustomed to the loneliness that accompanied her marriage. She wore it like an oversized coat, heavy and worn, but somehow comforting in its predictability.
Her days were filled with endless errands and chores, all under the guise of keeping their home perfect, a shrine to Mark’s standards. She worked part-time to contribute financially, yet Mark often complained about her ‘lack’ of commitment to their home.
It wasn’t always like this. There were days of laughter, shared dreams, and whispered promises. But somewhere along the way, Mark’s career took precedence, and Sarah became an afterthought.
The turning point came during a Saturday afternoon when Sarah, exhausted from cleaning and trying to juggle grocery bags, overheard Mark on a phone call. “Yeah, Sarah? She just stays home all day, doesn’t do much,” he laughed.
Standing there, hidden by the doorframe, she felt the words pierce through her like icy daggers. Anger bubbled inside her, a rare and forceful tide. It was as if every grievance she’d swallowed down was rising to the surface.
That evening, while they sat in the dimly lit living room, Sarah turned to Mark, her voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions. “Mark, we need to talk.”
He looked up, surprised by the seriousness in her tone. “About what?”
“About us. About how things have been for too long. I’ve been doing everything to meet your expectations, but it’s never enough.”
Mark frowned, defensively. “You know I work hard, Sarah. I expect a certain standard.”
“And what about my standards, Mark?” she countered, her voice firmer now. “When was the last time you asked if I was happy? If I felt valued or appreciated?”
His silence was telling.
“I’m done,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “I deserve more than this. We deserve more than this.” She took a deep breath. “Either things change, or we need to rethink what we’re doing here.”
Mark stared at her, the reality of her words sinking in. For once, he was at a loss for words.
In the days that followed, Mark’s demeanor shifted. He began to ask about her day, to show interest in her thoughts and feelings. They started small, finding their way back to each other, but with new boundaries clearly drawn.
Sarah felt lighter, the chains of expectation gradually falling away. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress.
Now, they were a work in progress, and that was enough for her.