A Wife’s Grieve Doesn’t Have A Vent
I am in my twenties. At this age, my mind has grown loud — shadowed by a cynical haze. I no longer have the heart to conjure fairytales, for all I see are the invisible walls of injustice. I know that seeking answers from the world will only leave my soul hollow. The truth before my eyes is far more vivid, especially when I witness the haunting reality of being a wife.
If I could capture it in a single word, it would be mournful. I see now that marriage is not measured by the price of a house or the shimmer of gold, but by the quiet war of two souls trying to remain under the same roof. Sadly, that roof often feels less like a shelter and more like a cage.
A wife is expected to understand, to be soft-hearted, to love endlessly, and to give until there is nothing left. I once saw this as noble, but now I see the bitterness of a household built on selfishness. Many men crave a wife who stays “at home,” calling it protection when it is often just a form of abandonment. She is treated like a machine — required to function without a sound.
She serves, she tends, she obeys. And when her spine feels as though it might snap under the weight of it all, her husband claims a greater right to be tired. He silences her exhaustion with his own, rendering her pain invalid.
The irony is cruel. When the noise of the house becomes too much, a husband can simply walk away. He finds refuge in the haze of cigarettes and the laughter of friends, fleeing his responsibilities without a heavy heart. But the wife? She remains. Even in her deepest fatigue, she stays within those four walls, praying for him, tending to the children, disappearing into the background of her own life.
It is heartbreaking, isn’t it?
He can eat a feast with his peers while she was alone to only reach her cold chest. To breathe is her only luxury. This pattern is massive, a cycle that never changes its face.
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I once saw a video of a young mother eating alone, a fleeting moment she called ‘me time’. The world, however, turned it into a courtroom.
“How could you leave your child behind?” they asked.
“A mother’s duty is to her children, not her own pleasure.”
Ah, the quiet cruelty of it all. No one dared to stopped to ask if she was drowning. No one thought she deserved even a few minutes to breathe, away from the loud, endless noise of her own home.
They forget — she is a mother, yes. She is a wife, of course. But before any of those titles, she is a human soul. And like any soul, she deserves for a small piece of light, a tiny fragment of joy. A meal lasts only minutes, but her service lasts a lifetime.
Now, I look at marriage and see an imbalance. I think to myself: “A wife has no vent to escape.”
In this house, her tears are a forbidden language — dismissed as nothing more than ingratitude. So, she withers in the shadows, watching her youth fade, her hair thinning, her spirit growing frail. She buries her silent screams deep within the hollows of her chest. Such a sacred strength, so noble and so vast, yet it is being slowly hollowed out — wasted on a heart that has forgotten how to cherish her
I long to embrace those their shoulders and whisper that being a wife who can be relied upon is extraordinary. But I also want to whisper to their husband that a husband who dives into the complexities of his wife’s mind… isn’t that also a form of extraordinary grace?
I hope for a world where wives, mothers, and women are honored — not for the roles they play, but for the humans they are. They deserve to be asked how they feel, to be cloaked in affection, and to be granted the rights they were born with.
Happy Women’s Day. ❤
