Not Your Maid: The Day I Finally Said “Enough”

“Do you want hot dogs or scrambled eggs?” I asked, louder this time, hoping my husband would look up from his phone.

Dominik barely glanced at me, scrolling with his thumb. “Hot dogs. Just… don’t do any of your weird stuff with them, okay?” he muttered, his voice full of that familiar, dismissive tone.

I looked down at Zosia, our six-month-old, snuggled in the crook of my arm. Her breath was warm against my wrist; I could feel her soft baby sighs. I shifted her gently, trying to balance her little body without waking her. The kitchen was a wreck—dirty pans, bottles, mail scattered on the counter. I hadn’t showered yet. My hair was in a knot that felt like it could snap my neck if I turned too fast.

“Can you hold Zosia? Just for a minute, so I can cook?” I asked, quietly but firmly. I tried to sound reasonable, not to beg, though I could feel my patience thinning.

“Yeah, just let me finish reading this,” he said, flicking his hand in the air as if waving away a fly.

Zosia began to fuss. I bounced her on my hip, trying to shush her, but my arms were tired. I’d been up twice last night, once to nurse her, the second time to rock her back to sleep because Dominik said he needed to be “well-rested” for work. I wanted to scream.

But I didn’t. I put Zosia down in her bouncy chair, even though I knew she’d cry. I turned to the stove, filled a pan with water, and fished some hot dogs from the fridge. Behind me, Zosia’s fussing turned to wailing.

“Dominik, please,” I said, louder. “She needs you.”

He sighed, finally putting down his phone. He picked up Zosia, but the way he did it—so awkward, so impatient—made my heart ache. He looked at me, exasperated. “She only wants you anyway.”

Tears pricked my eyes. I didn’t want to cry, not in front of him. I kept my back turned, stirring the pot, watching the water start to boil. My hands shook. I remembered a time, not so long ago, when we’d laugh together over burnt pancakes, when he’d hold Zosia just to watch her sleep. When did it become just me, alone, holding up this house?

The hot dogs were done. I plopped them onto a plate, grabbed some bread. Dominik was back at the table, Zosia now quiet in his lap, but he stared at his phone again. I put the plate in front of him. He didn’t look up.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

I stood there, the kitchen spinning. I wanted to throw the plate. Instead, I picked up Zosia and went to the living room, sinking onto the couch. My phone buzzed with a text from my mom: “How are you today, sweetie?”

How am I? I wanted to tell her I’m drowning. That I’m tired of feeling invisible, like I’m just the maid. But I sent back: “Fine. Just busy.”

I looked at Zosia, her big blue eyes searching my face. I whispered, “It’s not supposed to be like this, baby. Mommy’s just tired.”

The afternoon dragged on. I cleaned, nursed, washed laundry. Dominik worked from home, headphones on, door closed. At 5:30, he emerged, hungry again.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, not even a hello.

I lost it. “Do you even see me? Or am I just here to serve you?” My voice cracked, loud and sharp, bouncing off the kitchen tiles.

Dominik blinked, surprised. “What’s your problem? I worked all day.”

“And I didn’t?” I snapped. “I cleaned, cooked, took care of your daughter, and you can’t even hold her for five minutes so I can pee in peace!”

He scoffed. “Oh come on, Kinga, don’t be so dramatic. You’re home all day.”

That was it. Something inside me snapped.

“I’m not your maid! I’m your wife. I’m Zosia’s mother. I’m a person! I have dreams, too. I want help, not just another person to clean up after. I’m tired, Dominik. Tired of pretending this is okay.”

He glared at me, but I didn’t back down. My hands were shaking, my heart hammering in my chest. Zosia started to cry again, sensing the tension. I scooped her up, my voice softer but fierce. “I need you to be my partner, not just a roommate. I need you to care.”

He stood there, mouth open, as if seeing me for the first time. But he didn’t say anything. Not one word. He turned and left the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

I sank to the floor, Zosia in my lap, both of us crying. I rocked her, breathing in her baby scent, letting the tears fall. I thought about all the women I knew—my mom, my friends—who shrugged off this kind of loneliness, who swallowed their anger and kept going. But I couldn’t anymore.

That night, I fed Zosia, put her to bed, and sat alone with my thoughts. I opened my laptop and started searching for part-time jobs. Something—anything—that might give me a piece of myself back.

Dominik didn’t come to bed until late. He didn’t say goodnight. The silence was thick, but for the first time in months, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe things had to break before they could get better. Maybe I wasn’t just someone’s maid. Maybe I was still Kinga, and I could save myself, if nobody else would.

What would you do, if you were me? How many times can you sacrifice yourself before you forget who you are?