For eight months, in between feedings and chores, I’d been carving out something of my own. I freelanced during nap times—small translation and editing jobs, slowly learning new tools. Every dollar I earned, I saved. Not for bills. Not for groceries. For me.
Two days later, I packed up Noah and booked a cabin in the mountains. I didn’t ask for permission. I left a note: “Gone for a week. You two figure it out. Love, Talia.”
The cabin smelled like pine and peace. I walked trails with Noah wrapped against me. I drank coffee while it was still hot. I read aloud, just to hear my own voice again. I remembered what it felt like to belong to myself.
When I returned, the house was a mess. Takeout boxes. Piles of laundry. A worn-out look in Eli’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t realize how much you do.”
Rick stood behind him. “I didn’t either.”
Since then, things have shifted. Eli does his laundry now—not perfectly, but willingly. He helps with dishes. He even brings me tea sometimes, silently offering a little piece of recognition.
Rick cooks dinner twice a week. He asks me where ingredients are. He listens more. He doesn’t joke like before. He calls me by name. He thanks me—in the quiet, steady way that actually means something.
And me? I still clean. I still cook. But now, I do it because I choose to. Not because it’s expected. I continue freelancing. I have clients now, real income, contracts with my name on them. It’s a part of my life that belongs only to me.
The hardest part wasn’t leaving—it was realizing no one noticed how much I carried until I put it down.
Now, when Eli walks by as I fold clothes, he stops. “Need help, Mom?” he asks.
Sometimes I say yes. Sometimes I don’t. But either way, I know he sees me.
And that makes all the difference.