Linda sat on the edge of her unmade bed, surrounded by the sounds of chaos that had become the background music of her life. Somewhere down the hall, her youngest, Ellie, was crying because her older brother had stolen her favorite toy. In the kitchen, something was boiling over on the stove, hissing in protest.
The house smelled faintly of milk, crayons, and exhaustion. Linda ran a hand through her tangled hair and took a deep breath before forcing herself up again. She wasn’t sure when mornings had started to feel like battles—maybe when she’d had her second child, maybe before.
All she knew was that she hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in five years. The mirror on her dresser reflected someone she barely recognized: hair hastily tied up, eyes framed with dark circles, a shirt with a faint stain that she hadn’t noticed before. She used to be stylish once—before the kids, before the endless laundry, before the days blurred together.
That’s when David appeared in the doorway. He was dressed neatly, of course, in a crisp shirt and pressed trousers, smelling faintly of cologne. He looked like he was heading to a photoshoot rather than to work.
“You always look like you just rolled out of bed,” he said, smirking as his eyes swept over her. Linda froze, clutching the baby monitor in her hand. “Good morning to you too,” she said flatly, trying not to sound as tired as she felt.
“I’m just saying,” David continued, adjusting his tie in the mirror. “You could at least try, Linda. Some women still take pride in their appearance even after having kids.
Look at Claire from my office—she’s got twins, and she still looks amazing every day.”
Linda’s chest tightened. She knew Claire. She was tall, confident, always in heels, with sleek blonde hair and an easy laugh.
Claire didn’t have three kids under six. Claire didn’t have a husband who barely looked up from his phone during dinner. “I’m sorry I don’t have time to curl my hair when I’m trying to keep three humans alive,” Linda muttered, heading toward the kitchen before she said something she’d regret.
David sighed dramatically, as though he were the one burdened by the weight of parenthood. “I’m not asking for much,” he said, following her. “Just a little effort.
You used to care about how you looked.”
Linda didn’t respond. She poured cereal for the kids and tried to ignore the sting in her chest. She remembered how she used to wear red lipstick when they were dating because David said it made her smile look radiant.
Now he rarely even noticed when she smiled at all. The rest of the morning passed in a blur of spilled milk, missing shoes, and tears. When David finally left for work, she stood at the sink washing dishes, staring out the window at nothing.
Her reflection in the glass looked worn and distant. That night, after she’d put the kids to bed, Linda sat alone on the couch. She scrolled through old photos on her phone—pictures of her and David when they were newly married.
They looked so happy then. He used to tell her she was beautiful even when she had no makeup on. Somewhere along the way, that man had disappeared, replaced by someone colder, more dismissive.
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