Mirror Me | A Mother's Love

Cora & the Mistress

It's 8:30 p.m., and Cora and her husband are sitting quietly at the dining table, eating dinner. Their kids are playing nearby, and the baby is finally asleep. Cora is exhausted but still interested in her husband's day at work.

"How was work?" Cora asks, trying to sound upbeat.

Without looking up from his phone, he replies, "Eh, it was fine."

Cora continues to eat, saying nothing more for a moment. Her husband remains engrossed in his phone, watching videos and chuckling to himself, enjoying his time to unwind. But Cora, who hasn't had an adult conversation all day, had looked forward to seeing him. It seems, though, that he's only interested in his screen.

"So today, I almost put the milk in the cupboard instead of the fridge," she says with a laugh. "I feel like I'm losing my mind."

But he doesn't respond. He's still focused on his phone.

Irritated, Cora tries once more. "Did it rain a lot today while you were working?"

Her husband lets out a laugh, and she realizes he's still looking at his phone. He didn't even hear her question.

"Did it rain a lot today?" she repeats, a little louder.

Still no response. Feeling alone and defeated, Cora stops trying. She finishes her dinner in silence, then gets up, clears her plate, and begins tidying up.

As she cleans, she hears one of the kids calling for their dad. But he doesn't respond. Frustrated, she calls out, "Jim! She's talking to you!"

"Oh, sorry, my love. What's going on?" he finally says, looking up.

Their child shares what she wanted to say, and after a brief exchange, Cora's husband returns to his phone. Her daughter comes over to Cora, eager to talk to her now that Dad's attention has drifted.

Watching him drift back to his screen, Cora feels her irritation boiling over. She begins rushing around, her movements tense, speaking with a sharp tone toward the kids—not because of them, but because her heart feels heavy and her frustration is building. She's hurt and feels ignored. The worst part, though, is seeing him ignore their children, too.

Whenever Cora brings up how he's constantly on his phone, he brushes it off, saying he's just relaxing. He insists that being in the same room together counts as spending time together. But Cora disagrees—being physically present isn't enough, not for her and certainly not for their kids. She needs him to understand that just being in the same room means nothing if his attention is on his phone.

Why can't he see that his family deserves more? Cora feels as though they come second to his screen, as though his phone is his real partner. Am I the mistress to his phone, or is his phone the mistress to me?

Once again, Cora has frustratingly cleaned up the house, bathed the kids, and put them all to bed one by one, while her husband sits at the dining table scrolling on his phone. Exhausted, she takes a shower, then heads to bed. Passing through the living room, she notices he has moved to the couch, already drifting off to sleep. She glances back at the dining table and sees that he left his dinner plate and the mess scattered across the table.

"Goodnight," she says, kissing him gently before going into the bedroom.

"Goodnight," he replies.

As she lies in bed, Cora feels an ache in her heart. Tears fill her eyes, and she sobs silently in the dark. Her husband has often said she treats him like a roommate, but if only he knew how hard she tries to have conversations, to spend meaningful time with him—only to be ignored. Maybe then he would understand why she seems distant. The truth is, she isn't the one ignoring him or treating him like a stranger in their home; he's the one putting himself in that corner. His dream had been to have a family, but he seems content with just creating one. He has no real connection with them and doesn't even help.

His excuse is always that he's exhausted after work, which Cora understands. But how is she, just as exhausted, still able to be present for her children and keep the house in order?

Feeling defeated and alone, she cries herself to sleep, hoping for a happier day.