Not Now, Honey, We’re Talking About Important Things: The Story of a Woman in the Background

“Not now, honey, we’re talking about important things.” I don’t remember the first time I heard those words, but I remember the sting. I remember standing in the kitchen, hands deep in soapy water, my husband David and his brother Mark sitting at the dining table, voices low and urgent. It was always like this—hushed conversations, glances exchanged over my head, laughter that stopped when I entered the room. I was the background music to their lives, comforting but never noticed.

Even as a kid, my role was clear. My parents called me their “little helper,” which meant I was the one who kept my younger siblings quiet while Mom napped after her double shift, the one who made sure the house didn’t fall apart when Dad’s temper flared. I was the fixer, the soother, the one who made the world easier for everyone else. It was a language I learned so early, I didn’t even know I was fluent in it—until I realized I didn’t know how to speak up for myself.

“Sara, can you bring us some coffee?” David called, not looking my way. I dried my hands and set two mugs on the table. Their conversation picked up again, talk of investments and job layoffs and Mark’s bitter divorce. I stood there for a moment, hoping someone would ask about my day, the new promotion I was too afraid to mention, or the fact that I hadn’t slept in three nights because our daughter Emily had nightmares. But no one asked. No one ever did.

After they left, I found Emily in her room, curled up with her favorite stuffed bear. “Why don’t they ever talk to you, Mom?” she asked. Her big brown eyes were so earnest, so unfiltered. I knelt beside her and brushed her hair back. “Sometimes people don’t realize they’re not listening,” I said, but even as I said it, I felt the lie settle in my chest.

Later, when David came to bed, I tried to tell him about my day. “David, I have something exciting to share—” I started.

He barely looked up from his phone. “Can it wait? Mark’s having a really hard time right now. I just need some peace.”

I turned away, willing myself not to cry. In the darkness, I wondered how many times I’d swallowed my words to make room for someone else’s troubles. How many times I’d put myself on the back burner, convinced that was where I belonged?

The next morning, I went to work at the elementary school. I was a guidance counselor—ironic, considering how little guidance I’d given myself. I spent my days helping other people’s kids find their confidence, their voice. “You matter,” I told shy second-graders. “Speak up. The world wants to hear you.” But at home, my voice evaporated before it ever left my lips.

One afternoon, I stayed late to help organize the school’s spring fair. My phone buzzed—David. “Where are you? Dinner’s getting cold.”

“I’m just finishing up here. I told you this morning—”

He cut me off. “Well, maybe next time you could think about your family first.”

I hung up, my hands shaking. Why did it feel like everything I did—every small rebellion, every forgotten meal—was proof that I was failing them? Failing as a wife, a mother, a daughter?

That night, after everyone was asleep, I sat in the silent kitchen. I poured myself a glass of wine and stared at the family calendar on the fridge—every square filled with someone else’s needs. Soccer practice, PTA meetings, David’s business trips, Mom’s doctor’s appointments. My own handwriting was everywhere, but never about me.

I thought about my promotion—the one I’d turned down because the hours clashed with Emily’s after-school schedule. I thought about the art classes I’d wanted to take, the friends I’d lost touch with, the dreams I’d buried under casseroles and carpool lines. Was this really all there was?

A week later, my mother called. “Your brother lost his job again. He might need a place to stay.”

Of course he did. I wanted to scream. “Mom, I can’t. Not this time.”

She was silent for a moment. “Sara, honey, you’re always so good at helping.”

“I can’t,” I repeated, my voice trembling. “I need to take care of my own family. I need to take care of myself.”

The silence stretched between us. Then, quietly, “I understand.”

Did she? Did anyone?

That night, I told David about the promotion. “I want to try. I know it’ll be hard, but I think I can do it.”

He looked surprised. “But who will pick up Emily? Who will help with the house?”

I met his gaze, finally steady. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

He didn’t look happy. But for the first time, I didn’t feel guilty. I felt angry. I felt alive.

Weeks passed, and the new job was exhausting. The house was messier, dinners were later, and sometimes Emily had to go to aftercare. David sulked. My mother called less. But I felt lighter. I was learning to say no, to ask for help, to let myself take up space.

One night, Emily crawled into my lap. “I like when you’re happy, Mom.”

I hugged her close. “Me too, baby.”

Sometimes, when the old guilt creeps in, I remind myself what it felt like to finally be heard. To sit at the table and say, “This is important to me.” I think about all the women who are still standing in the kitchen doorway, waiting to be invited in.

So I have to ask: When was the last time you put yourself first? And if you never have—why not now?