Dear beloved diary,                                            Sept.1^st.1857

          I am a newly wed, married to Jacob Lockwood. It has been 7 years since my wedding; I am now 21 years old. My husband and I have had 5 beautiful children: Jane, Nicholas, Scott, Penny, and Bella. I am now pregnant with our 6^th child. With a fast growing family, I have fallen into depression and am very lonely. My name is Margaret Lockwood, and I am a woman, living life in the 1850s.

My family and I, live on a small farm on the edge of a town. The farmhouse is where I spend all of my time. Although it is very old and rusty, it is my only home. The roof leaks every time it rains, the wooden walls are falling apart and are creaking throughout the day. The shutters are broken- letting the early sun come pouring in.  Outside there are chickens roaming the grounds, crops growing wildly, and animal’s fattening- getting ready to eat.

Living on a farm is a lot of hard work. I must plant the fields in spring, care for the plants in summer, and harvest the crops in fall. Afterward I walk 5 miles to the small town, close to my home and trade the surplus goods.

My married life is my profession. My husband has all control over me. I have no right to divorce, unlike my husband. He has no respect for me; he has brought home prostitutes every other night. Even then, I am forced into having sex with him, doing all domestic chores, farming, trading, and caring for my young. If I ever defy my husband, I am left covered in blood and bruises for I am brutally beaten.

My religious beliefs of the role of the women are fixed. I am inferior to my husband. He has the final word to everything to be done. The house, land, our children, including ME is his property, and I must respect his very wish. My husband has very high expectations  of me… and I must meet them all, including doing all of the housework.

 I am expected to make bread daily in the outdoor oven; I dread the painful work of kneading the dough. My hands turn black, and blue from the bitter cold. I feel as if I am living in a tight bubble, only allowed to leave for brief pampering of my “so- called husband”. If it weren’t for my kitchen I would be slowly driven mad, for the kitchen is my only form of self- expression.

          Preparing meals is a demanding a job. Every night I must set and clear the table, wash the dishes and pots, clean the stove and sink, and sweep the kitchen. I must provide a feast for my demanding husband at each meal, which he greedily devours, leaving little to none food left, for my children and I. My children have become so weak, for I have begun to give my small share of food to them, threatening the life of my unborn child.

Life as women in 1850, living in a state a little better than slavery is hard. I live for my children, and stay with my husband in fear of my life. Tomorrow shall bring another day full of struggles and hardships. But for now there is work to be done.

                                                                       Yours truly,

                                                Margaret Lockwood

By: Aditi Tandon