She comes home after work, exhausted much like you.
But where your long day ends, hers is just beginning.
Nothing tidies itself.
Laundry doesnt magically clean and fold.
Supper doesnt appear out of thin air.
Children dont tuck themselves into bed and drift off to sleep without soothing; they dont grow quietly all on their own.
And you?
You slump into the armchair, reach for your mobile, flick the telly on, and sigh,
At last, a moment to breathe after such a shift.
She says nothing.
She swallows her fatigue, clenches her jaw, and gets on with what must be done.
Because thats what shes always been tolda womans meant to manage everything,
that the house is hers to keep,
and a man will help out when he fancies.
But truth be told, thats nonsense.
Your home isnt an inn.
And shes not unpaid staff.
If you both work, the house is a shared duty.
If you both call this place home, both should work to make it a haven, not a mill for weariness.
For a woman who slowly feels more like a housekeeper, a cook, a nanny
in time, she stops feeling like herself.
Shes not after the impossible, believe me.
She doesnt want you bowing at her feet or handing out medals for putting up with so much.
She wants something much simpler:
that youre present.
That you notice.
That you understand.
That you do your share.
Because theres no ache quite like the loneliness of being alonewhile sitting together.
