“Can’t you do anything useful?” the husband bellowed, while his wife drowned between the children, the chores, and her side job. And then she became the best wife—but no longer for him.
Lena, my old friend from Manchester, a mother of three, recently remarried. They say happiness thrives in silence, but I couldn’t help my astonishment. Yes, women with many children find love too, but knowing how she lived in her first marriage, I’m still stunned: how on earth did she survive?
“Who’d want her—she’s past it!”
I visited their home a few times. The impression? Heavy. The flat was a perpetual whirlwind: porridge scorching somewhere, the youngest darting around in soggy tights, the middle one shrieking for help with homework. Lena darted between them, trying to cook dinner before her husband returned—he hated a “messy house.”
She frantically stuffed toys into boxes. Flicked open her laptop—freelancing for extra cash, because his wages barely covered rent and bread. Her life was an endless, breathless race in circles—no breaks, no applause.
He’d walk in and hurl from the doorstep:
“Fill the cat’s bowl. At least do *something* useful…”
As if her day hadn’t already been a silent odyssey. She’d fall quiet, dim, nod, and shuffle off to tend to the cat—to finally do *one* thing “right.”
Once, half-joking to lighten the mood, I suggested:
“Let’s take the kids, put on some lipstick, hit a café. You’re gorgeous—just forgot, that’s all.”
And then, like a blade twisted:
“She’s too old for lipstick,” her husband said. Smiling. As if joking. But he wasn’t.
Lena flashed a guilty smile, dropped her gaze, mumbled something about home-cooked food being better. The table buzzed with kids, toys littered the floor, her phone pinged with work emails, and he sighed:
“Enough with the internet. Do something *real*.”
I left. A dull dread in my chest.
“It’s my fault…”
Lena never complained. Not even in the darkest hours. But through mutual friends, I heard things. Her mother-in-law despised her—bad mother, bad wife. Their son once fell off his bike, scraped his face—proof she wasn’t watching. A messy home? Lazy. Her husband’s yelling? Deserved.
Once, as we walked, her youngest suddenly wailed in the street:
“Mum, you’re rubbish! You never read to me!”
She pulled a book from her bag and began reading. Exhausted. Hollow. As if already defeated. She *wanted* to be good—but the well was dry.
Then it all crumbled. He left. For another woman—presumably the “right” kind. He paid child support, visited the kids. By the book. All “fair.” And Lena muttered just one quiet thing to me:
“Maybe I deserved it.”
They moved, swapped flats, vanished. Years of silence.
Then—suddenly—a new Lena.
She messaged me out of the blue. Her profile picture: smiling, radiant, hair loose, in a sundress. Unrecognisable. Not a stranger—free. Alive. I asked to meet.
She arrived. I barely believed my eyes. Spine straight, laughter unforced. Light in her gaze. I just stared, thinking: *Bloody hell…*
“I’m married,” she said simply. “He found *me*. Back then, I just wanted to survive. Love wasn’t even a thought. But he—he courted me. Befriended the kids. And suddenly, I realised: I’m *seen*. Heard. *Chosen*.”
Turns out, she’s the best wife alive—even with slightly burnt eggs. Because he praises her, grins, eats with joy.
Turns out, mess isn’t shameful if the whole family tidies up while laughing. That groceries aren’t a solo burden, laced with sighs about forgotten items—they shop together. Lightly. Happily.
Turns out, she isn’t a “tired old hag,” but a woman worth cooking for, styling hair for, answering the door with a grin for.
Turns out, she’s brilliant—because she *chooses* to work. But doesn’t *have* to. Because the weight isn’t hers alone now.
Turns out, she’s not *nothing*. She’s love.
As she spoke, I sat mute. Then her new husband walked into the café—tall, kind, attentive. He looked at her like she was a miracle. And I knew: to him, she’s *everything*. Not “mother of three.” Not “weary housewife.” A *woman*. Fully.
The kids clung to her, touching her sleeve, whispering. And I saw it: she’s a wonderful mother.
Because beside her stands someone who let her *believe* it. Who didn’t crush her. Didn’t blame her. Just—gave her wings.
I’ve no clue what her first husband thinks. Maybe he doesn’t care. Or maybe, one day, it’ll hit him—what he lost. But it doesn’t matter now.
Because Lena isn’t lost. She found herself. Alone. Became who she always was—just needed someone to let her see it.
And a little love.