My name is Lili, I am 60 years old. I am retired and live in a quiet town by a lake. My days pass peacefully: morning tea on the veranda, tending a small garden with medicinal herbs, reading books. Sometimes I feel lonely — especially after my husband passed away a few years ago. Our marriage wasn’t perfect, but somehow it held together, at least on the surface.
What no one saw was how much effort I had to put in myself: work, raising my son Rayan, managing the household. His father did almost nothing, and I carried everything on my shoulders.
Recently, Rayan, who is now 33, called me: “Mom, the kids miss you, they haven’t seen you in a long time.” My heart beat faster. I prepared homemade jams for them, made sweaters for the children, and joyfully set out on the journey, feeling light and happy about the visit.
But as soon as I entered the house, I was met with a shock. There was chaos everywhere: toys, puzzles, blocks — all mixed into a chaotic mosaic. Little Eli was screaming, Maya was looking for a lost crayon, the air was heavy with exhaustion.
Emma stood in the middle of the kitchen, her hair tangled, eyes with dark circles, clothes wrinkled and stained. She looked as if she hadn’t slept for days. Rayan, on the other hand, lying on the couch, stared at his phone as if none of this concerned him at all.
When I sat next to Emma, she quickly ran to me and hugged me as if she wanted to escape from the whole world. “Lili, I’m so glad to see you!” — her voice trembled. I immediately noticed how tired she was.
I asked, “Dear, how are you feeling?” She forced a weak smile: “Just tired… so many things.”
At that moment, Rayan, without looking away from his phone, shouted from the kitchen: “Emma, where’s my lunch? Don’t forget the shirt, later I have a meeting with friends.”
Emma, wasting no time, ran to cook, holding Eli on her hip while stirring the food at the same time. I clenched my fists, watching. In my son, I recognized the same man I once knew: indifferent, used to having someone else do everything for him.
Later, when the children went to sleep, I joined Emma in the kitchen. “Let me help,” I offered.
“No, you’re a guest,” she said, but her voice was weak.
Gently, I took the kitchen cloth from her: “Emma, tell me what’s going on.
She began speaking in a trembling voice: “When I got pregnant with Eli, Rayan told me to quit my job. I thought it would help, that he would support me. But in reality… everything fell on me. Cleaning, cooking, the children, the bills… everything. And when I say I’m tired, he says, ‘You’re a housewife. That’s your job.’”
I listened, feeling a familiar pain. Rayan turned out to be similar to his father, who once told me, “You’re at home, why are you tired?” I realized I could no longer allow another person to suffer the same way I once did.
The next day, when Emma went shopping, I called my sister Nora and her partner Dina, both retirees and former nurses, who had always cared for others. We gathered enough money to send Emma for a full relaxing spa day: massages, treatments, a cozy room, no children and no Rayan.
When I handed Emma the printed booking confirmation, she froze: “But the kids can’t be left alone…” — “They can, and Rayan will manage,” I said. Her eyes filled with tears, and she hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe.
The next morning, Rayan was in complete confusion: “Where’s Emma? Where did she go?” I calmly replied, “For some rest. She earned it. And you’ll take care of the children.
