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 Litany of the defeated wife

You are a young and a pretty damsel, you satisfy him — I cannot compete with you.

I am the fat, weary wife — worn out and tired from children and chores. You have the beauty, vanity of youth; mine is the forgotten self- care of the aging.  

You are funny and fresh and cheerful  — I cannot compete with you.

You giggle like a girl, swirls like a princess, flirts like a sweet cake. I have the  towering laundry, the messy kitchen, the errands to run.

You make him feel good, in your arms  he is a Hero, a God, a King — I cannot compete with you.

I am the bills to pay, the garbage bins at night, the kids to raise. With me he is a man with too much on his plate.     

You obey him blindly, submit to him completely, follow him devotedly - I cannot compete with you.

I am the wife who speaks her mind, the woman who disagrees, the partner who compromises.  I am  the villain who anchors him to the ground, the entrapment of his boundless desires.

You are the pleasures of his flesh, the freedom of his fancies, the shovel for his manly pride.     

To you, I surrender.

I yield, I concede. You win, I lose.

But  in my defeat, remember  -   “a house built on another woman’s tears will never stand.”

He is all yours now, the coveted prize — to fend for, to tend to, to ravish and to devour.

He is all yours, to endure and to suffer.

.             .             .

 As we tread the winding road …...

That is one angry, tired wife. The bitterness. The rage. Fresh. Raw. Real

That was me almost two decades ago – betrayed, hurt, abandoned.

Today, my children are thriving, my family is blessed, my heart is at peace.

The years in between are stories of struggle, hard work, learnings and forgiveness.

If, right now,  you are in the middle of a dark storm, hold on.  Be mad, be hurt, be in the crushing anguish, be afraid. Cry, shout, stomp. Submit to the piercing pain. 

Let the anger dissipate. Then get back up again, crawl if you need to, one day at a time.              

It is possible to have a happy ending.

As the countless women before us, you too shall overcome.

.             .             .

 Thank you for reading my essay. My name is Abigail Ortega. I write warm, poignant essays and short stories. I also paint simple artworks. If you like to read more of my work, you may join our newsletter here:  https://afto.myflodesk.com/qj13kigo4b.

Abigail Ortega