Mirror Me | A Mother's Love

Cora's Loneliness

The weekend has finally arrived, but for Cora, it means almost nothing. Saturday doesn't change the routine. She doesn't get to clock in or clock out, take a break, or do anything different from what she does every day. The same responsibilities, day in and day out.

Still, her expectations shift slightly. With her husband home, she holds out hope for a little much-needed help.

The kids wake up at their usual early hour and come straight to her. "Good morning, my loves," she greets them with a hug and a kiss.

They expect her to get up and make breakfast as usual, but after three years of sleepless nights and now pregnancy insomnia, she's exhausted. She hopes her husband will get up this time and help with breakfast. After all, he had a full night of uninterrupted sleep on the couch in the living room.

But as Cora lies there, waiting to hear any sounds from the kitchen, it stays silent.

Reluctantly, she struggles out of bed. It isn't easy anymore, with her large belly making every move an effort. She stumbles out of the bedroom, her kids following close behind, and starts making breakfast. Her husband is still asleep on the couch. She understands that he's tired and needs sleep, but it feels like he's the only one who's allowed to be tired. She may not wake up at 4 a.m. every day to make him breakfast or pack his lunch, but she's the one who wakes whenever the kids need her at night, who puts them to bed and then gets herself ready. By the time she crawls into bed, it's usually close to midnight. She's handling everything on her own from the moment she wakes up to the moment she finally falls asleep.

So, she thinks, maybe on the weekends he wouldn't mind getting up to make breakfast so she could get an extra hour of sleep. "That's selfish," she mutters under her breath.

Unenthusiastically, she moves through her morning routine—making breakfast, washing dishes, and tidying up. Her frustration leaks into her movements, and she finds herself shutting cabinet doors a little harder and letting room doors slam just a bit.

"Just sit down!" her husband calls irritably from the couch, where he's still lying down. His tone is full of annoyance as he watches Cora do her normal chores, the kids playing noisily around her.

"Why don't you just go into the bedroom and sleep?" she replies calmly, though her patience is wearing thin.

He gets up, visibly angry, muttering a string of profanities. "I just want to get some sleep!"

Me too, Cora thinks, rolling her eyes.

"Just sit down. Stop cleaning!" he yells again.

"If I don't do it, who will?" she snaps back, retreating to the bedroom to gather herself. She's eight months pregnant, hasn't slept properly in weeks—no, years—and yet no one around her is actually helping.

She sits alone, listening to the chaos in the living room as her husband yells at the kids to be quiet, but they keep playing loudly. The sounds blur into a dull, constant noise in her mind.

Cora feels terrible again. She thinks she's a horrible wife, a terrible mother. Maybe she's not meant for this life. Maybe it would be better if she just didn't exist.

Tears well up as guilt gnaws at her. She feels selfish for wanting a little help with the kids and the house. Sure, he works hard, but so does she. The difference is that her work doesn't come with a paycheck, and no one notices the effort she puts in. No one will, unless her kids grow up troubled, and then everyone will shake their heads and say that, despite her efforts, she failed as a mother.

Moms can't win, she thinks bitterly. No matter what she does, she feels she'll always fall short. Perfection always seems within reach, but she's only human. But it feels like society expects mothers to be perfect, not human.

The bedroom door opens, and her husband steps in, looking annoyed. "Why are you always angry? Once in a while, okay, but every single day you're mad. Just relax! Be happy! Enjoy this time with the kids!"

Cora stays silent, her eyes filled with resentment as she stares at him.

Frustrated, he turns and leaves. Cora is left alone, again.

I feel so alone, she thinks. She has no friends, no support, no one to vent to. Even though she's surrounded by the children she loves so much, she feels incredibly lonely. She isn't unhappy with motherhood because she hates it—she just has no help. Esther is too controlling, her husband is exhausted and doesn't understand how hard it is to be a stay-at-home parent.

He even asked to have a weekend alone for a short trip, saying he needed a mental reset. Cora had told him to go; it was better than having him take his frustrations out on the kids. But inside, she felt so defeated. Why can't he understand? Why does he think he's the only one who's tired, the only one who needs time alone? Why does Cora always have to be happy, always have to enjoy every bit of her life? Why is she the only one who can't care for herself without feeling guilty?

Her cup has been empty since her first pregnancy, yet she still pours all her love and energy into keeping the family together. He's always saying how stressed he is about money and that he knows she's tired, but he has to focus on providing.

Money is the only thing he has to worry about, though. Cora worries about everything else he doesn't. It isn't a competition, but she feels like she's losing. No matter what, she'll never be able to rest. Unless they win the lottery, money will always be at the root of their fights and frustrations.

Feeling hopeless, she lets herself sink into the weight of her negative thoughts. Slowly, she rises, wipes her tears, and practices a smile. She opens the door, putting on a brave face for the kids. She steps back into her weekend routine: same chores, same arguments, same feelings of loneliness and failure.