Because my childhood was spent missing my parents, I thought nothing of careers, nothing of being a juggler of home and work, nothing of being a “super” mom. Nothing about being an “earning” wife. I wanted to be a mother and a wife.
I took the decision long ago. Maybe at fifteen, or maybe even before. I don’t quite know.
I made my husband happy when it was just the two of us. I cooked. I made the home pretty. I loved him having his friends over for dinner. He was proud of his pretty wife with a great figure, who cooked well, and liked his friends. He loved his wife who gave him surprise birthday and anniversary gifts. He was grateful to his wife for always listening to his day at work. He lusted for his wife behind their closed bedroom doors.
I had married the love of my life. We loved. Then we had a daughter.
I made my daughter happy. I made her little hand puppets, made her teddy bears in her favourite colour. I painted her room with her favourite cartoon characters. Made her star shaped sandwiches and chocolate chip muffins. Knew all her friend’s names and their parents. Took her out of school and went junk jewellery shopping. Made her bunk classes and went for movies. I tried my hand in teaching her maths, though we did stop that exercise pretty soon. I cried with her when she fought with her best friend and laughed with her when her appa got scared of her makeup kits.
My daughter got a job and became a career woman. And then she became appa's girl.
