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Your Life as a Spartan Wife

You’re born in Sparta, and before you can speak, your body’s already been judged useful or disposable. Childhood isn’t dolls and lullabies, it’s javelins, sweat, bruises, and public shaming drills set to chorus songs that mock cowards by name. By eighteen, you’re married off like a political strategy, your wedding night is a staged abduction, and your husband sneaks in from the barracks like romance is a felony. You run estates, manage helots, ration grain for war mess halls, and raise sons who leave you at seven to be beaten into weapons by the state. Your land grows with every man the war machine swallows, and by the time you’re a widow, foreign men write angrily about how much power you have, while you tell younger women to hand their sons a shield and say, “Come back with it or on it” without flinching. You don’t belong to your husband. You belong to Sparta. And Sparta belongs to war. Your Life as a Spartan Wife