Stepford.

For years I tried to be a stepford wife. I was pretty sure I was damn near close.

Not perfect by any means, but near.

The monogrammed apron, home cooked dinners, kids in their matching Vineyard Vines. The silk nightgowns and maribou slippers. Hair dyed, makeup done.

The heels. The clothes.

I cleaned, I cooked, I fixed, if I noticed a light bulb out, it got changed, the toliet paper needing to be replaced. Keeping the pantry stocked. Planning family vacations.

Picked out the perfect throw pillows and paintings.

Trying to make this house a home.

I did it all.

I tried and tried and tried.

I realized I was doing it all for a person who could have cared less.

Who looked through all the efforts I put forth.

Who wasn't appreciative, but expectant, moreover resentful.

Whose idea of a compliment was, "that's new, or that's nice."

Never feeling recognized.

Never being truly seen. Felt. Acknowledged.

He was so concerned with him, he never saw me.

Little me, waiting in the wings to be loved.

Trying my best to be what I thought was close to a perfect wife.

Wanting to be whisked off the ground and spun around and loved. Told I was cherished.

And after years of cooking dinners, and attempting to create this picture perfect family.

I felt like I could ask.

I finally felt brave enough to ask for what I wanted.

But

I was answered with heartbreak.

So don't ever forget to ask for what you want, but be ready for the answer.

Xoxo,

C.