Eight years have passed since I became a housewife, not because it was my hearts desire, but because life decided so. In my peculiar and hazy dream, the walls of our cottage in Yorkshire seemed to gently sigh as I tended to my two children, a husband who worked endlessly, and a home that never stopped collecting dust and muddied footprints.
Every morning, at precisely 5:30 a.m., I awoke as if summoned by unseen hands. Before any other soul stirred, I was stirring porridge and frying eggs, the kitchen echoing with strange whispers. By seven oclock, plates glistened in the sink, the living room was swept clean of invisible leaves, beds stood tall and smart, and lunch simmered halfway into existence.
My husband would slip out into grey dawn, calling over his shoulder, Just take it easy at home. As if “taking it easy” meant lounging in a velvet chair with tea and crumpets. But the moment I closed the door behind him, my second working shift beganlaundered shirts tumbling through the air, floors scrubbed as if they might reveal secret messages, bathrooms polished so bright they threatened to swallow reflections, toys gathered from odd corners, groceries hunted beneath a rain-dappled sky, and children plucked from school gates.
When the children tumbled indoors, respite vanished into the floorboards. Homework sprawled like sprawling ivy, afternoon snacks appeared in clouds, squabbles rang out like absurd bells, loud laughter and tears tangled together, and soon more mucky clothes piled up, demanding their turn. Meanwhile, my husband returnedslumped on the sofa, scrolling his phone, eyes glazed. If I asked for help, he muttered, I work all day. I once replied, So do I. He snapped, saying I was exaggerating, that I couldnt possibly understand real exhaustion.
One day, I mustered courage and told him I wanted to return to work, to earn my own pounds, to escape the four walls, to feel useful beyond scrubbing and folding. He answered, Wholl look after the children then? and Why did I marry you at all? and Its selfish. His mother chimed in, insisting a proper wife belongs at home.
A strange invisibility descended. No one wondered how I was, nor thanked me. If dinner was too salty, complaints fluttered among the forks. If the house looked untidy, it was my faulta curse like a spell. If the childrens grades faltered, blame clung to me. Everything weighed upon me.
Once, while washing plates at ten oclock, my spine aching as though made of fog, I overheard my husband on the phone declaring, My wife doesnt work, she just stays at home. I let the plate drop into the sink, tears spilling with a rainstorms logic.
Now, all I feel is tirednessa strange tiredness without wages, without hours, without applause. The dream locks me inside these four walls, repeating the word just like a riddle. Only a housewife.
I dont know what to do anymore. Put up with it, demand recognition, seek work even if it disturbs the equilibrium of marriage? In this drifting English dream, I wonder: is the housewife truly privileged, or is her burden invisible to every eye but her own?
