The Maid of His Mansion
He Promised Me a Palace, But Left Me Sweeping the Floor of My Own Heart
He had a crush on me once.
A soft, silent one — the kind that makes a man glance back, again and again, without saying a word. For an entire year, he didn’t confess. He just watched. Smiled secretly. Held me in dreams I didn’t know I was a part of.
And in the second year, when I finally looked his way — when I gave him a little attention — he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He proposed to me.
And I… I said yes.
Not because he had money. Not because he had a future written in gold. No. He had none of that. His salary was only 12,000 taka. But he had hope. He had fire in his eyes. He had me. And I thought that was enough.
I convinced my family, stood up for him, and walked into his arms like a girl entering a fairytale.
But fairytales lie.
They don’t tell you that sometimes the prince stops looking at you like magic. That sometimes, the palace becomes a prison. That motherhood comes with lonely nights and thankless days.
Two years later, I was no longer his queen. I wasn’t even his wife in his eyes. I was the housemaid. The forgotten one. The tired woman he no longer found “attractive.”
Our daughter — our beautiful, innocent, 11-month-old baby — cried in the night. And he complained. He said her crying ruined his peace. That he needed silence. That he needed space.
Not for healing. Not for growth.
But for romance — with someone new. Someone “better.” Someone who hadn’t sacrificed her body and her dreams.
He told me, "You don’t attract me anymore."
And with those words, he killed something inside me.
He wanted a divorce.
And this time, I didn’t cry.
I didn’t beg.
I didn’t plead.
I agreed.
I told him he could keep his den mohor. I didn’t want his money.
I wanted something far more valuable — myself.
I stood in front of my reflection one morning — dark circles under my eyes, cracked lips, sagging skin, a body tired from feeding and fighting and forgiving.
But beneath all of that, I saw a fire. A woman who refused to stay broken.
I started small.
A skincare routine.
A new outfit, even if it was cheap.
Brushing my hair for myself, not for someone else.
Then I began planning — not revenge, but resurrection.
I fixed my resume.
Applied for jobs I was always qualified for but never pursued because I chose “home.”
And soon, offers started coming.
Because guess what? I wasn’t just a broken wife.
I was educated.
Talented.
Capable.
With every passing day, I started to glow — not from makeup, but from healing.
People noticed.
I noticed.
My skin cleared.
My posture straightened.
My laugh returned.
And one day, I walked past a mirror and whispered to myself: "This is the woman he gave up on."
He may now share his peaceful room with a woman he thinks is more “beautiful.”
Let him.
Because I’ve built something better — peace within my own skin.
I don’t need him to find me attractive.
I attract opportunities, growth, self-worth, and real love — not the kind that fades with a baby’s cry.
He lost me.
Not just a wife.
He lost a fighter.
A mother.
A queen.
Let him scroll through my photos one day and feel the sting of regret.
Let him wonder how the “maid of his mansion” became the woman everyone now admires.
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To every woman reading this:
Do not stay small because someone once made you feel invisible.
Do not apologize for your scars — they are proof that you survived.
And never, never, let a man make you forget your worth.
Because one day, your comeback will be louder than your heartbreak.
And you will walk back into the world, not as someone’s discarded wife…
But as your own masterpiece.
