When I received the news about my promotion, I broke down in tears in the breakroom—not out of joy, but from sheer exhaustion.
Years of staying late, sacrificing time with loved ones, and pushing through the quiet grind had finally been acknowledged. I texted my husband, Greg. “I did it,” I typed.
He responded with a string of confetti emojis and a promise of wine and dinner waiting at home. I felt proud, of course, but the triumph came with its own burdens—extended workdays, cold takeout dinners, and laundry that stayed in the basket for weeks. I gave up on mascara just because removing it felt like one more chore.
Lunch breaks disappeared; I’d eat at my desk between emails. Even my inbox seemed to run on caffeine. And sleep?
That felt optional. One night, as I microwaved yet another sad dinner, Greg looked up from where he sat. “You’re doing too much, Lizzie,” he said.
“Let’s hire someone. A housekeeper, maybe?”
“Yeah, just someone to help out. My mom’s friend has a daughter looking for work, young, and respectful.
She could take over some of the heavy stuff.”
I was surprised.
Greg came from a family of traditional men who believed in outdated roles. I once vacuumed in heels while he got ready for dinner, and he said, “You make it look good, babe.” But he had made changes since then—he was trying. Now this?
It floored me. “You shouldn’t come home from a long day and then scrub floors,” he added. “I can do some of it, but the site work’s been hard on my back.
We need help.”
Tears threatened again—not from fatigue this time, but from gratitude. “Okay,” I agreed. “Let’s do it.”
That Monday, Maria joined us.
I barely saw her. She’d come and go during my work hours and leave kind notes on the fridge. “Changed the sheets!”
“Dinner’s marinating—just toss it in.”
“Hope your meeting rocked!”
It was like having a helpful spirit around the house.
The air smelled of lemon cleaner, my laundry appeared folded and warm in drawers, and the kitchen sparkled.
I could finally breathe again. Then, the sleepwalking returned. I hadn’t done that since high school, but suddenly I was waking up with bruises and tangled blankets.
“Stress can bring it back,” my doctor explained. “A sleep journal might help. You’ve managed before.”
He also recommended setting up motion-detecting cameras to understand the pattern better.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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