For forty years, I heard the same sentence, and every time it landed like a crown on my head.
My wife doesnt work. Shes the queen of our home.
People smiled. Some admired me. A few envied.
And I I believed it.
I truly thought I was important. That I mattered. That what I did was the greatest job in the world.
And it was a job, just nobody called it one.
I was a cook, a cleaner, a nanny, a teacher, a nurse, a counsellor, a driver, an accountant, an organiser of everything. I worked fourteen hours a day, sometimes more. There were no days off. No salary. No thank you whenever I longed for one.
There was only one thing:
Youre at home. Youre fine.
My children never went to school in dirty clothes. My husband never came home to a cold supper. The house was always tidy. My whole life was arranged so that everyone else could relax.
Sometimes Id look in the mirror and I wouldnt see a woman.
Id see a function.
But Id tell myself, This is family. This is love. This is my choice.
My comfort was that it was all ours.
Our house.
Our money.
Our life.
Only, the truth turned out to be something very different.
When my husband passed away and went to meet his maker, my world collapsed not just from grief, but from reality.
We wept. People called him a good man, provider, pillar of the family.
And then the day came when the will was read.
I stood there as his widowhands nervously clasped, chest tighthoping for just a shred of security, some protection after all the years Id given him.
Then I heard the words that made me a stranger in my own life.
The house was in his name.
The bank account, his name.
Everything, his name.
And ours turned into his in an instant.
My childrenmy very own childreninherited the things I had kept, cleaned, and cared for throughout my whole life.
And me?
I was left without the right to claim even one thing and say,
This is mine too.
From that day, I began living in the most humiliating waynot in poverty, but in dependence.
I had to ask,
Could I buy my medicine?
Could I get myself some shoes?
Could I get my hair done?
As though I wasnt a woman of seventy, but a small girl begging for pocket money.
Sometimes Id clutch a shopping list and wonder how it was possible
How could I have worked for forty years and have my labour amount to nothing?
It wasnt only the lack of money that hurt.
It hurt that Id been deceived.
That I wore a crown of words, but not a crown of security.
That Id been a queen, but without rights.
And then I started asking myself questions Id never dared to before:
Where was I, in that love?
Where was my name?
Where was my future?
And above allwhy did I believe for so long that having money of my own was a sign of mistrust?
Now I know the truth.
To have your own income, your own account, your own insurance, your own assetsisnt a betrayal of love.
Its respect for yourself.
Love shouldnt leave you unprotected.
Love should not take away your power and leave you to beg.
Life lesson:
A woman may give her life for her family, but the home must hold space for her toonot only in the kitchen, but in rights, security and finances.
Housework is honourable.
But dependence is a trap.
