Talia loses it when she hears her teenage son and friends make fun of her for “just cleaning all day.” She goes without yelling, leaving them with the mess they didn’t realize she produced. A week of calm. Respect for the rest of your life. The present is a little but unforgettable punishment for her.
This is Marissa. In the past, I thought that love meant doing everything so that no one else had to.
No one noticed how dirty the floors were until I swept them. I made sure the cupboard was full, the baby was fed and changed, the teenager was only a little late, and my husband could wear steel-toed boots and be tired.
It seemed like doing everything was enough.
When my kid laughed at me with his buddies, I was broken. That’s when I figured out that just because you’re an important part of a family doesn’t mean they’ll notice you.
I have two sons.
Lucas is 15 years old and incredibly smart, but he is also quite impatient and easily annoyed. He couldn’t stop staring at his phone, was anxious about his hair, and couldn’t take looking people in the eye. He’s still my son down there. At least he was. When I’ve talked to people lately, they’ve rolled their eyes, been sarcastic, or just mumbled.
Then Caleb.
He’s a storm under a blanket at six months. He wakes up at two to eat, cuddle, or just because. I worry that I’ll be rocking another little kid to sleep at night who won’t even see me.
My husband James works long hours in construction. He doesn’t have any more energy. He drags himself in the door every night like a guy carrying bricks and asks for food, clean clothes, and a shoulder rub.
He says, “I bring home the cash.” “Just keep things warm, Marissa.”
Always smiles. Like a joke that everyone knows.
But I’m done with the jokes.
Used to. There was a time when I thought it was safe. It’s just a statement. When you tell the same joke again and over, it gets less hilarious. It starts to smell bad. Every time you do it, your chest gets tighter, which makes it hard to breathe.
What about Lucas? He hears everything.
He’s been acting like his dad lately, with the same tone, scorn, and smugness that he knows more about the world than I do.
He then says, “Mom, you don’t even work.” “All you need to do is clean and look after the kids.”
“It must be nice for you to sleep with the baby while Dad works hard and hurts his back.”
Are you tired? Are you really serious? That’s what mothers should do.
Words break like glass on the floor. A lot of noise. Not needed. Cutting.
What is my location? Most of the time, you have filthy dishes up to your wrists or a baby who has thrown up twice in an hour. Keeping everything in order in a world that moves too quickly for me to keep up with.
I ceased being a person who lived here. I was always there but never noticed.
On Thursday after school, Lucas asked two buddies to come over. After I fed Caleb, I changed him on the floor of the living room. I folded clothes with one hand while he kicked and shouted next to me.
I could hear them in the kitchen. Wrinkled wrappers. Taking my food. They whispered to each other till they stopped.
One person stated, “Your mom is always cleaning or folding clothes for the baby.”
“Yeah, bro,” the other individual said with a giggle. “Her vibe is broomsticks and burp cloths.”
The first person said, “At least your dad works.” “How else would you be able to pay for that game system?”
Lucas then said.
Bright. Not cautious. It broke my heart how easy she made things.
Hey guys, she’s living her dream life. Some ladies love becoming maids.
They laughed immediately away. Sharp and mean.
I stopped folding in the middle. Caleb cooed with me, pleased in his own little world. I felt something break inside of me.
Don’t cry. I didn’t scream. I felt like throwing up, but I didn’t.
I didn’t toss.
I went into the kitchen, grinned so fiercely that my cheeks shook, and gave them another box of cookies.
In a nice voice, I told the guys to eat. “One day, you’ll see real work.”
I turned around, walked back to my washing, and sat down. I couldn’t put my finger on what the onesie in my lap seemed to prove.
That was when I decided.
Not angry. Something that is colder. More clear.
James and Lucas didn’t know. For months, I had been quietly working on something.
It began with stolen minutes, such as naps and quiet nights. People thought I was on social media, but I was really seeking for freelance employment.
Translate work. Work as an editor. The money wasn’t great; it ranged between $25 and $40. No frills.
It was my.
I learned how to operate software, watched tutorials in the dark, and remembered grammar rules while Caleb slept on my chest. I edited with one hand, warmed up bottles, and answered emails with spit-up on my shoulder.
I kept every penny.
Don’t buy anything.
To get away.
Two days after that day in the kitchen, I put Caleb in his sling, packed a diaper bag, and rented a small cabin in the woods.
No notice. No talk.
I wrote on the counter:
Took Caleb. I really needed some fresh air. This week, you can pick who will “just clean all day.”
“The Maid.”
The cabin smelled like pine and calm.
Caleb held onto my shirt with his small hands as we strolled through the woods. I had some hot coffee. I read out loud so I could hear my own voice, not to ask for something or comfort someone.
When I got home a week later, it was like a war zone.
Boxes for takeout on the counter. There were a lot of dirty clothing in the hall. The air smelled bad. Lucas opened the door and said he was sorry, but there were some shadows.
“I didn’t know it was all that,” he said quietly. “I thought you just tidied things up or something.”
James looked like he was broken behind him.
“I said things I shouldn’t have,” he says. “I didn’t know how heavy you were.”
I didn’t say anything. I went in after giving Lucas a kiss on the forehead.
The calm that came after spoke it all.
Things are different now.
Lucas washes his clothes. Not right, but I didn’t ask. He puts the dishes in the dishwasher himself. I can discover crooked piles of cups, but it takes work. His.
He makes me tea at night. He carefully puts the cup down and sometimes stays close to me. Not comfortable. Nice. Trying.
James now cooks twice a week. No speeches. No joke. Takes out the cutting board and begins to work without making a sound. Someone wanted to know where the cinnamon was.
I looked at him over my coffee and wondered if he recognized how important that inquiry was—asked, not assumed.
They both say “thank you.”
Not too loud. Not a big deal. In actual life.
What about me?
I’m still cleaning up. I still make meals for my family. I don’t do this because I have to. I don’t do anything to make money.
I do it because it’s my home. I’m not the only one who can hold things together anymore.
Freelance work continues. They are now bigger. Deals. People who buy things. Your own money is on the line. I set the hours.
They didn’t see me till I was gone.
I came back on my own terms.
It was hard to stay.
I realized that no one had ever asked me how I was doing.
Not after I spent the night calming a baby down and cleaning pans while everyone else slept.
Not while I was sorting socks and my coffee froze.
Not when I was called “just a maid” for keeping track of schedules, tantrums, and meals.
It hurt the most.
Not chores.
The erase.
So I left.
Not mad. But she was at peace because she finally loved herself.
Sometimes, the easiest approach to encourage others to respect you is to be quiet.
When the floors stayed dirty, the socks went missing, and dinner didn’t just appear?
They saw.
Lucas doesn’t ignore me while I fold clothes anymore.
“Do you need help, Mom?”
Sometimes I agree with you. Not all the time. He provides you every choice.
And how about James? He stopped calling me a maid.
He calls Marissa again.
People now think of me as the woman who held things together instead of just being there. She might leave without anyone knowing she was coming.
