Christine didn’t cook. It wasn’t that she refused out of rebellion or pride. She simply didn’t like it, didn’t have the skill for it, and most of all, didn’t have the time or mental space to learn. Her husband didn’t cook either, but somehow, they got by. Takeout dinners, quick-fix meals, and improvisation kept the family fed. She made sure of that. They were never left hungry. That, in her mind, was what mattered.

Outside of the kitchen, however, Christine did everything.

She washed, dried, folded, and packed away the clothes. She ironed them too. She was constantly making sure the house was stocked and everything was where it should be. She prided herself on organisation and order. It was how she became efficient and how she committed everything to her memory. She memorised the family calendar, the routines, the birthdays, the gifts, and the social events. She planned birthdays months in advance. She matched outfits and hair ties. No one had to ask for anything. It was always already.

Every school morning, she dropped off their two-year-old daughter, picked her up in the afternoon, and managed every detail of her daughter’s routine until bedtime. Christine worked full-time, five days a week, yet her work didn’t end when the office hours did. The moment she stepped through the door, her second shift began – the invisible job that no one truly sees unless it’s left undone. She kept routines in place. She anticipated tantrums, prepped snacks, remembered vitamins, and wiped messes and spills from crafts that bought her thirty minutes of housework.

Only when the house was silent did she stop to consider her own needs. By then, she was too tired to care. A quick bite to eat, a scroll through her phone, and maybe a deep breath in the dark. Then she collapsed into bed, knowing she’d rise in a few hours and do it all again.

Christine had tried different methods – chore charts, reminders, and little systems to make things easier. She wanted balance, not just for herself but for the household. Yet somehow, things always returned to her hands, her list, and her mental load.

She didn’t expect perfection. After all, her daughter was only two years old. Christine understood that this stage required sacrifice and energy. But deep inside, she carried a question that often went unanswered: Did anyone see how hard she was trying?

Her husband loved their daughter and spent time with her, and for that, Christine was grateful. Yet, those moments rarely translated into relief. If he was playing with their daughter, Christine was using the window to reorganise a drawer, fold more laundry, or scrub the kitchen sink. It didn’t mean she got time for herself. She rarely did.

That’s when she noticed – the rules weren’t the same.

It wasn’t about culture or tradition. Christine didn’t want to blame heritage. It felt deeper than that. It was simply that she was the woman, and he was the man, and somewhere along the way, that had quietly shaped the expectations.

There was no clear villain in her story and no outright disrespect. However, there were subtle and lingering moments that chipped away at her joy. Like the time she asked him to choose a pants and shirt for her to iron. He picked out the shirt and hung it up. When she asked about the pants, he seemed surprised, as if that part wasn’t his responsibility. “I didn’t see it,” he said, shrugging. That was it. He hadn’t looked twice. In the end, she found it. She always did.

It wasn’t about the pants. It wasn’t about food or chores. It was about the assumption. It was the quiet certainty that she would handle it, and she did, again and again, not out of resentment but because the task demanded it and no one else stepped forward. Christine had become the fixer, the organiser, the steady hand that kept the home from unraveling.

Yet, with all that she held together, no one asked if she needed holding too.

She reminded herself daily that her family was a blessing. She meant that. She wanted to be the one who brought structure, who gave her daughter a sense of safety and rhythm. She considered it a privilege and sacred work to create a space of warmth and care. But there were days when the weight of it all dulled the beauty of it.

Life began to feel like a checklist. A series of tasks to survive.

Christine didn’t want to live that way, constantly on autopilot, bracing herself for the next demand, measuring her worth in how little rest she allowed herself. She didn’t want to fight about who did more. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure what “more” even looked like anymore. What she wanted was appreciation – not applause or grand gestures, but a shared effort. The kind that said, “I see what you’re trying to do. Let me handle this part for you.”

Maybe things would change as her daughter grew older. Maybe the load would redistribute naturally over time. Until then, Christine knew she would continue doing what she always did: holding the line, keeping things running, and quietly carrying it all – even when it wasn’t fair.

By all appearances, Christine had it all together. But under the surface, her daily rhythm told another story. It was one of devotion, exhaustion, and quiet imbalance, because that’s who she was.

Even though the rules were different, Christine had learned how to live within them – not with resentment, but with resolve. Still, somewhere deep inside, she hoped that one day, the rules might change. That one day, the weight would be shared not just in word, but in action, and that one day, she wouldn’t have to do it all alone.

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