For years, she bent over backwards to please him, suffocating her own dreams under the weight of his expectations. Every day was a cycle of chores, criticisms, and compromises that left her wondering if love was supposed to feel this way.
Sarah stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the clutter of another hurried breakfast. Mark had just left for work, once again leaving behind the remnants of his morning: an unwashed coffee mug, toast crumbs sprinkled like confetti across the counter, a newspaper splayed open, highlighting the world’s chaos. It was as if he thought the house magically reset itself each day and she was merely the invisible hand behind it.
“You forgot to pick up my suit from the cleaners,” he had mentioned nonchalantly, a subtle jab laced within the mundane task. “And remember, my parents are coming over this weekend. Make sure you have everything ready.”
It was never a request, always an expectation. Sarah felt the familiar sting of his words as she washed the mug, her hands moving mechanically. His parents’ visit meant cooking and cleaning, rearranging her week to accommodate their presence, while Mark would breeze through it all with a compliment on her efforts, thinking that was enough.
Her dreams of writing, what had once been vivid stories fluttering in her mind, had become distant whispers. She had tried to balance it all, but somewhere along the line, his expectations overshadowed her own aspirations. It was easier to comply than to confront.
Until the day she found herself staring at an old manuscript buried in a drawer. It was like rediscovering a part of herself she had forgotten existed. She sat on their bed, flipping through the pages, feeling the words draw her in. It was then the realization hit her – she had been living in the background of her own life.
The turning point came that evening when Mark, engrossed in his phone, mentioned another work dinner she would have to attend with him. “It’s important for my career,” he said, eyes not lifting from the screen.
“Mark,” she started, her voice steady yet unfamiliar to her own ears. “I can’t. I have a meeting with a publisher.”
He looked up, genuinely puzzled. “A publisher?”
“Yes, a publisher. I’m going to try and get my book out there. I need to start focusing on my life, too.”
There was silence, thick and heavy, as Mark processed her words. “I thought you were happy,” he said, more an accusation than concern.
“Happy?” Sarah echoed, a small, incredulous laugh escaping her lips. “I’ve been living your life, and somewhere in the process, I lost myself. It’s time I found her again.”
Mark opened his mouth, probably to argue, but closed it again. He seemed to see her, truly see her, for the first time in years.
As Sarah walked away, manuscript clutched to her chest like a lifeline, she felt an empowerment she hadn’t known before. The road ahead was uncertain, but it was her road, and that was enough.
In the months that followed, Mark started to change, making efforts to share more responsibilities and asking her about her work, genuinely listening. Relationships were about growth, and for the first time, they were growing together.
