#my parents hire a cleaner for our house

[benrybenrybenry-chr]

I can never truly claim that Sherlock Holmes is a small fandom despite nobody my age in my city even really knowing abt it because it USED to be so popular and adapted every five seconds but it ISNT anymore and everyone only knows bbc sherlock which is FINE but I'm DISAPPOINTED and-

[decadesfinds]

I think my least favourite interpretation of the past is that women "did what they were told" - especially married women. A lot of what people interpret as subjugation was done because it had to be done, and somebody had to do it, or everyone would suffer and die.

The idea that they could just pick up their skirts and go live an awakened, enlightened #feminist life without this labour is also ahistorical. You still have to have someone do the dishes after the feminist luncheon, as someone put it, and it doesn't matter who. Things, even today, need to be done. There is no path to enlightenment that ends in housework being obsolete.

These women would look at you extremely strangely if you asserted they were subservient, and laugh in your face if you insisted they get a mind of their own. They were doing things like cooking for long hours because it was that, or starve. Spin wool, or have no clothes. Split wood, or freeze.

Their job was usually "make sure nobody starves, the children are cared for, the animals are fed and watered, the injuries are tended, the fires stoked, the food purchased, the money managed, the supplies ordered, the home cleaned, the food stored properly, the wool and flax spun, the hired workers paid etc etc" and that's still an important fucking set of jobs to do.

There are also a lot of skills that we simply do not have to do anymore. We still have to have someone who cooks, who scrubs, who feeds the cat and orders the refills and makes sure the gutters are repaired. It's just less gendered now. But labour was much different then. Laundry took an entire day of the week, by hand. You had to do your own canning, your own darning, your own boot repairs, or take it to a professional for a fee... which required you to hook your own animals to a wagon, get in the saddle, or go on your own two feet. There were no fridges or lightbulbs for many years, and cleaners were often just vinegar, soap, bleach, and elbow grease. Someone had to be around to do that, or you hired someone to do it.

The idea that women were these woebegone, overworked, horribly depressed and isolated housewives is a creation of the 1950s. In the 1950s, the war was over, and most young women lived apart from their families and communities for the first time in many decades. New suburbs sprung up and isolation followed.

(This is partly why food in a box became such a staple, btw. Being in your 20s with four kids and nobody nearby to show you how to cook something, outside of memories of WW2-era foods now considered outdated after rations ended - of course packaged and instant foods became a success. It was easy.)

Of course, not every woman back then was depressed, and many were proud of their lives. It was all so new and exciting. But it was also so divorced from how life used to be, that it was still a huge shock to the system for the many that came before, who knew community and families all in one place. Now women were expected to be isolated with just their husband and kids, with no help from family, and often hours of driving between family members (parents, grandparents, siblings) on brand new highways. The cultural shockwaves are still lingering now. The world this woman knew growing up was being torn up for perfect little boxes. It's not the universal lot in life for women. It was created by housing developers to sell properties, by companies to sell products. This is not the reference point for all women, it's an aberration.

Historical women did not often live like a 50s woman did, or like we do now. We are the exception, and the Decades Challenge helps explore how history became now. But it's not linear, and women were not liberated on an ever-increasing timeline of rights. Women have always had choices, but they also had obligations different to ours.

Women were happy, they had joyful lives and were full of memories, and able to make their own decisions. They lusted, they cried from laughter, they had tenderness and were able to shape a life they were happy within. They lived in communities and were a proud part of them.

This applies heavily to a lot of narratives around the Decades Challenge - that women were simply wives until feminism liberated them. As if being just a wife is anything to sneeze at, as if women didn't also have lives beyond that. The idea that they were forced to cook, forced to milk the cow and tend the hens and have the kids is insulting. Many women wanted these things and chose them willingly. Many dreamed of that life. Many did it to survive and would feel it strange that you wouldn't see her choice as smart or valid.

Of course, not every woman got free choice (there is abuse everywhere!) and many did suffer. Many did feel trapped. Many still do. But it's absolutely appalling to me that there's even the idea that all women universally were miserable waifs for centuries, waiting to be liberated from behind drawn curtains, waiting to bloom. It's untrue.

I just wish people would write their historical women as more than pitiful or uneducated on their own rights. They had a different world than we do, but that world wasn't solely a horrible place to be a woman, and you should show them the same respect as that #girlboss you think of today.

[fostercare-expat]

Since my ex has offered financial support for Fearless, perhaps the best option to try is to hire a helper to help out him and his family. A helper is someone from another country who enters this country on a specific visa to essentially be a live in maid / cook / cleaner / nanny. The pay isn’t great but it is significantly more than they make in their home country and they get housing and meals and basic healthcare provided. The system is ripe with abuse, and I definitely have a bit of white guilty about the whole thing. But I think I provide a fair wage, a positive working environment, and plenty of rest and independence to live a normal life and not just be a 24 hour “servant”. My helper knows someone who is looking for work now and is available to start. I’m interviewing her tonight. It’s a bit of a weird situation and she’s going to need to be a super flexible person. She would work for me in theory but her time would be spent a lot with Fearless’ family, and need to travel back and forth between our houses. But she could hopefully provide a much higher level of supervision than is happening now. And she would do some cooking and cleaning so Fearless’ mom can spend more of her time parenting and relieve some stress on her. It’s a huge cost (which I would split with my ex) and I’m aware that I’m making a commitment to this helper because she has a family of her own to support back home so I don’t want to hire her and have it not work out a month later. But if Fearless can’t live with me, I can’t do nothing because everyone agrees he needs some intervention. This is my best Plan B.

[hisandherscleaningllc]

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[ponchojasper]

People joke about how cat's will take the fattest shit the MOMENT that you clean their litter box, but honestly? I fully get it.

CW for very TMI and shit talk, not detailed, but still worth a CW

I live with my parents, and they have hired house cleaners that come every Friday morning and have been cleaning our house for as long as I can remember.

Now, my body is on a schedule, right? Every morning, like 2-ish hours after I wake up, I gotta shit.

Usually when I wake up on Fridays, the cleaners are already here doing their thing, and naturally I don't wanna leave my room cause since I've known them for years and they're very nice people, I just don't want to interact with anyone before like noon ever.

Now imagine; my time comes, and I peek out of my room down the hall to the bathroom, and there's someone busy cleaning it. I gotta wait until they're done and by that point I gotta shit REAL bad, so the MOMENT they leave it's go time.

So yeah, I understand you, cats. You are seen.

[ramayantika]

Braj ki Holi [Ch-1]

MASTERLIST

Vrindavan Cottage was a nice place to stay for young travellers like us. The entire area housed duplex buildings with two to three rooms, depending on the booking and the number of members. There were two rooms on the ground floor with two double beds, and the third room lay upstairs with a single bed. They even had a small backyard laid with a table to have evening snacks or breakfast. The rooms were neat and well-maintained. Did I mention we had free wi-fi?

It was our second day in Vrindavan. I was wide awake in my room with my alarm ringing with a melodious flute tune from my favourite TV serial, ‘Mahabharat.’ Yeah, I could have slept in till 8 am or 9, but I was in Vrindavan, so I got up early to bask in the soothing early morning of this divine place where tales of mischief and friendship, good over evil, young innocent love and duties are still sung and celebrated in the narrow lanes of this town.

I walked to the backyard and sat on the chair, and closed my eyes. Removing my rubber band, I brushed my hair with the help of my fingers and laid it on the back of my chair. Krishna’s flute composition rang in my ears, and unknowingly, I smiled at the memory. This morning would have been more perfect if he were here to play his melodious music on his flute. It would have been the two of us, the light blue six am sky with clouds lined up in a large mesh-like structure and a gentle morning breeze. Ethereal!

Krishna had texted me yesterday evening asking which hotel were we staying at. His siblings and Arjun were staying at their relative’s house in Vrindavan, which was only an hour's drive from here. My heart skipped a beat when he told me that he was planning to come here soon.

Today was Ekadashi where Phoolan Holi would be celebrated at the Banke Bihari temple in the evening. This event lasted for twenty to thirty minutes, where the temple priests would shower flower petals on the devotees assembled instead of the usual gulaal. The three of us were excited to experience this flowery Holi celebration. The temple was half an hour away from Vrindavan Cottage. Our parents had already hired a driver to take us around Vrindavan.

My cousins were sleeping soundly in their rooms, giving their bodies rest and saving their energy for today’s trip. Before attending Phoolan Holi, we had decided to visit Prem Mandir, Madan Mohan temple, Shri Gopinath Ji temple and Katyayani Peeth. We would start at 9 am after breakfast and visit the temples. Somewhere in the middle, we would have our lunch at a local eatery and then go to Banke Bihari in the evening and come back to our hotel.

After sitting in the backyard for around fifteen minutes, I decided to take a stroll around the cottage premises. It was only seven in the morning, and not a soul was in sight except some cleaners. There was a small temple nearby, and I could hear a few Hare Krishna chants which sounded soothing to my ears. More than the voice of the singers, it was the name that soothed me the most, making me feel fuzzy on the inside. Surely God Krishna would forgive me for remembering my Krishna from the train? Well, God Krishna is cool, so he won’t mind me.

The entire campus was divided by a wide road with cottages on either side. There was a small park too for kids and a pond with lilies. I went to the park and sat on a swing when my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Who is calling me so early in the morning? I wondered.

Fetching my phone from my pocket, I glanced at the screen, which instantly made me smile. It was Krishna! Instantly I smoothened my hair and patted my face before accepting his call.

‘Hi! Sorry to disturb you so early in the morning.” What the hell! How does his voice sound so melodious this early?

Ignoring my questions about his voice, I answered cheerfully, “First of all, a very good morning to you flute player. And no, you did not disturb me because I was already awake half an hour ago.”

He chuckled and paused for five seconds before saying, “Yesterday, all of us were tired, so we did not call you guys up about meeting again. Since you are staying for a week here in Vrindavan and Mathura, and this is my native place, I thought if you all would come with us and celebrate Holi.”

Well, that did sound nice. Wait a minute! Not nice, this was exciting. We wouldn’t need a guide to visit other temples, and with Krishna, we could participate with the locals in the festival. Our parents had asked us to not mingle too much in the crowd in case we got lost or worse abducted, but with Krishna, we could go safely.

“I don’t think my cousins will object to the plan. But how do we go about it?”

Even though I could not see him, I could imagine his million-dollar smile and hear his excitement as he answered, “I have it all sorted. Dau, Subhadra, Arjun and I were planning about this the entire night. Subhadra was so excited that she was about to video call you at 3 am to discuss. Anyway, leave that part, we should focus on the important task. Today is Ekadashi, so you all enjoy the Phoolan Holi. Tomorrow we all will come and pick you up at nine in the morning and go to Gokul for Chhadi Maar Holi. I am sure Ranvit would like it because he missed Barsana and Nandgaon’s Lathmaar Holi. And that’s enough information for the first part of Brajbhoomi’s grand Holi celebration. You all just be ready by nine tomorrow. Also, we asked Subhadra to not disclose anything else to you guys, so no help or hints from her side, too.” He paused again for ten seconds. “And no, we certainly aren’t plotting to murder you all.”

I couldn’t contain my laughter. “Oh, damn! I thought you wanted to kill me and dispose of my body.”

“Now, let us not talk about murder in the morning. But, yeah, we all have planned some fun stuff for you guys. So, see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, bye-bye!” I cut the call and placed my phone inside my pocket. Smiling to myself, I went inside our cottage to wake my cousins up and tell them about this plan.

Krishna had told me about his childhood in Brajbhoomi. He was born here and spent his early childhood here, after which he had to move to Gujarat. He still maintained contact with some of his childhood friends, and this was the first time he was visiting this place after seven years. He even told me about his childhood best friend, Radha, who lived nearby his house when they were young, and he often annoyed her with his pranks and mischief. He was excited to meet her in person after so many years and was keen to make me meet her too if we got a chance, which I was sure we would.

I hopped my way back to the cottage and pushed Bhumi’s room door open. She never locks her room while sleeping, fearing that she won’t be able to open the door quickly in case a ghost lands inside her room. I poked her shoulder and gently shook her.

She frowned and turned to the other side. “Sssh don’t disturb.”

“I have news from Krishna, sister.” I knew this would wake her 

up in an instant.

And she did wake up. She jerked from her sleep and sat up. “Oh my God! Really? What did he say? Are you two-”

I swatted her arm and told her about our trip which Krishna had planned. After hearing the entire conversation, her sleepy face appeared all charged up with energy. “And now you both will get to talk so much. Holi is also quite romantic, isn’t it? You both can put colours on each. Nervous hands touching each other’s face and maybe-’

I closed my ears and ran out while Bhumi sat on the bed, curled up in her bedsheet, laughing, “You may run away from my thoughts but don’t forget to thank me when this turns true.”

“Shut up and get ready, Bhumi!” I yelled and ran to Ranvit’s room to wake him up.

***

We were heading towards Banke Bihari after a heavy lunch at an amazing restaurant. It would still take an hour to reach the temple and Bhumi had dozed off in the car after lunch, leaving me and Ranvit to talk about the other temples we visited during the daytime.

“Which temple did you like the most?” Ranvit asked me, adjusting his shoulder slightly as Bhumi used his shoulder as a pillow.

“Prem Mandir!” I exclaimed. “I was amazed at the construction and the beauty of the temple. It looked like a palace to me, more than a temple.”

Prem Mandir was indeed the most beautiful of all the temples we visited today. It was a new temple, not an ancient one like the others, but the area and the ambience were suffused with love and devotion just like the meaning of the name of the temple. The temple courtyard was a large area for the visitors to smoothly enter and exit or rest for a while. To the right was the temple complex, and on the left were various panels, showing various events and stories about Radha Krishna. The guide told us that evening was the best time to come here when the entire building would appear colourful accompanied by musical fountain shows. But, we had gone there during the day which had less crowd so we were still able to enjoy the beauty of the temple as well as pray to the deities.

“True! The other temples were great, but Prem Mandir was something else. Marble structures look so beautiful,” said Ranvit. “But I like how in the other temples, we saw the murtis, they had this traditional look which we see in folk art. Well, folk art was inspired by traditional imagery of the deities though. But, you see, even though Prem Mandir was exquisite with the panels and construction style and of course, the beautiful murtis but the other ones had this local touch, as if they were of our own. I don’t know how to explain that feeling — something like being closer to them, maybe?”

Ranvit loved Indian folk art and was planning to take a class once he would be done with school. He did take drawing classes and even still continues them, but Indian folk art attracts him the most. In the temples, especially at Madan Mohan and at the Radha Gopinath Mandir, he kept staring at the idol. I agreed with his point, too. And ancient temples have their own magic, timeless and enchanting.

A huge jerk interrupted our conversation and woke Bhumi from her afternoon nap in the car. There was a speed breaker which our driver uncle had missed hence the jerk. “Don’t worry! It’s all good,” he said and continued driving. “The temple is just ten minutes away now.”

“Oh, then I have ten more minutes to sleep.” Bhumi dozed off again, but this time chose my shoulders as her pillow.

Ranvit chuckled and moved his gaze towards the window. “By the way, have you informed maasi we are going with Krishna tomorrow? I haven’t informed mummy yet.”

Shit! I did not. “Should we tell them? What if they tell us no for safety reasons? They would be right, but Krishna and all aren’t fishy people but — let’s not tell our parents so soon. Tomorrow anyway they will call us so we can tell them on our way and lie that we are out with some school friends who coincidentally were at the same hotel with their families. What do you say?”

“Let’s do that only. Thankfully, none of them is on Instagram to check with whom we are going. But, do you know I am very excited about this. This is an opportunity of a lifetime and feels like a Bollywood movie you know.” Ranvit turned his head towards me and tapped on the windowpane. “Meeting new people on a train and them making travel plans with you after spending one night with them. Filmy right?”

I smiled. “Yeah, it is. When we will be old, we can boast in front of our kids that we went on a trip with people we met on a train and had a blast. We would be so cool in front of them.”

“Bacha party aagya Banke Bihari,” announced the driver. Bhumi woke up with a jerk and rubbed her eyes and squinted at the temple. It was 3.45 pm with the afternoon sun entering our windows and falling directly over our faces, especially Bhumi’s.

Bhumi wiped her face with those wet wipes she always carries with her while Ranvit and I stepped out of the car and stretched our arms. Bhumi checked her phone and said, “Ah! I have 70% battery left. I will get so many pictures now.”

Ranvit shook his head, saying, “Oh yes, you are our budding influencer. You have to get photos.”

Bhumi scoffed and walked ahead. “Whatever! You have fifty followers because I click your photos. Now come fast.”

The temple gates were already open to allow devotees to come inside. We even spotted a couple of foreigners with their cameras and tripods. The priests were standing near the idol with large baskets full of flowers. In the corridors leading to the inner veranda, many devotees and priests stood with flowers in their fists. Within five minutes, the main area of the temple had a huge crowd. Each person held their breaths in anticipation to witness the glorious flower Holi event.

The clock struck four, and loud cheers reverberated inside the temple. The priests and the temple staff began showering flowers over us and some volunteers were busy distributing fistfuls of flowers to the devotees.

Bhumi closed her eyes and smiled at the flowers falling over her and quickly grabbed her phone to click photographs. We too got some flowers to play Hol, and after throwing the petals in the air, we slowly moved towards the side where the gathering was less.

Bhumi eagerly showed some of her photographs to Ranvit and me and kept her phone inside. Soon gulaal was thrown in the air and everything appeared colourful. Pink, violet, blue red- these colours dominated our surroundings. I clicked a few photos and videos to share them on my Instagram and with my parents.

“That was splendid!” exclaimed Ranvit. Being a painter, his eyes took in the different shades of flowers and gulaal over the people and the idol. “Damn! I will paint this scene.”

“I wonder what Holi would look like here. This is just Ekadashi and look how beautiful everything appears,” I said.

A girl crossed my field of vision. She was wearing a pastel pink blouse and skirt and a matching dupatta around her neck. The crowd instantly circled her. Children were running around her skirt and throwing flowers at her. Some of the elders blessed her and gently applied a teeka over her forehead with gulaal. She smiled at them and bowed to them with a namaste and walked to the deities and bowed to them. The priests allowed her to apply some gulaal to the Krishna murti.

“Who is that girl?” asked Ranvit. Bhumi’s eyes moved towards her and looked at her curiously. “Maybe some VIP I think,” said Bhumi.

The girl looked around my age. Even though she was dressed very simply, she looked angelic. She had tied her hair in a small bun with a gajra. Silver bangles dangled on her left wrist.

“She is quite pretty though, don’t you think?” Bhumi nudged my elbow and whispered.

I nodded at her and moved my eyes away from her lest she find the three of us staring at her. I barely managed to look at her side profile, but she looked like a sculpture come alive.

After the event, we were served prasadams and some sweets. As we made to the exit, we touched the last step of the temple in reverence and folded our hands when I heard a female voice calling out, “Radhika jaldi aana kitna time lagayegi.”

And the temple beauty graced my eyes. She was Radhika and the female voice I heard was standing a little far from us and I guessed that perhaps the other girl was Radhika’s friend.

Bhumi was the first person to go and approach Radhika, being the extroverted person she was. She tapped on her shoulder, making Radhika turn back granting me full access to look at her face. And I must say, beautiful was an understatement. I didn’t know, but she reminded me of Krishna suddenly at that moment.

“You are really pretty,” said Bhumi, with a smile. I dropped my gaze down and pretended to wear my shoes by fussing with the lace. Even I wanted to tell her that, but I had no heart like Bhumi to go straight and approach her.

“Thank you so much. You are?” Radhika said in a sweet voice, and it again reminded me of Krishna.

“I am Bhumi, a tourist here to experience Holi in Brajbhoomi.”

"Oh, I see. Nice to meet you Bhumi. Hope you have a wonderful stay here and have a wonderful Holi.”

I discreetly tried to look at Radhika again. Do you know what happened next? Her eyes quickly darted towards mine, and she passed me a knowing smile as if she knew me. Since she had already acknowledged my presence, I could no longer stay there and pretend to tie my laces for the hundredth time. I waved at her.

She nodded at me and looked at Bhumi. “I need to go back home. May our paths meet again.” She turned back to the exit. Adjusting her dupatta, she looked back for a second, directly at me. I smiled at her in return as goosebumps rose on my skin.

Why was she reminding me of Krishna so much?

***

Taglist: @manwalaage @itsfookingloosah @redirection04 @mrs-tomato-head @lil-stark @yourslove @reallythoughtfulwizard @riiddhhiii (I suggest you to read the previous chapters from the first part and then proceed with this one)

(I need to make a masterlist)

[eggwatchi]

The Astrological Houses Challenge part 6/12

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* The Sixth House of Twelve *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

THE SIXTH HOUSE

The sixth House refers to daily work, service, diet, health and physical sickness, physical ability to work, employees. This includes volunteer labor, civil service work, caretaking, (etc). The 6th house really involves the quality of your work, the quality of the jobs you perform, and daily mundane tasks (such as work and hygiene)

Since the 6th house is a comfortable place for Virgo energy, and Virgo is ruled by Mercury, our heir is influenced the same way. This will add themes of being modest, practical, analytical, intelligent and reserved.

Traits: Perfectionist, Neat, and Proper OR Paranoid (basegame-Ambitious)

Aspiration: Perfectly Pristine (basegame-Master Chef)

Career: Doctor (basegame- culinary-chef branch)

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Read more about this sim and challenge below! ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

What Will Their Life Be Like?

You’re playing as a sim who’s life revolves around service and health, the good and the bad.

You’ll never be like your parent, who you find selfish, lazy, irresponsible. You’re the exact opposite. You watched your parent treat love like a game, and treat children like a joke, and you swore you’d never do that. You’re much more serious about everything. In fact, once you start working for the public, you start becoming a bit paranoid. People carry a lot of germs. Food has a lot of chemicals. You find one shower is barely enough to make you feel clean after seeing what working with the public is like. You have to change the way you’re living. Only if the floors are sparkling, can you sleep peacefully. But with career, family, cleaning, there’s so much to do for this sim and so little time. Can they handle it all? Something has to give, but what will it be?

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

GOALS

Move to a new world with 20,000 towards your starter home

Marry a sim with the Slob trait, have one child

Wait for marriage to Woohoo with Sims

Always remain loyal to your significant others

Never hire another service sim. (Repair broken things yourself, etc. While you’re at work you can’t hire a Nanny so a spouse or family member must move in to help with childcare. Special occasions you can use daycare only if child can’t attend the event/lot with you)

Something has to give: when you reach Level 6 of your career, you must either divorce your slob partner forever, or quit your job, abandoning all progress.

Grow A Cowplant and name it

Have a half sibling be eaten by your Cowplant

Grow a death flower, pass it on to your child

Have one Bubble Bath per week

Upgrade 6 objects

Have Small Pets (pets required)

Purchase Speed Cleaner reward trait

Purchase Super Green Thumb reward trait

Gain the Health Food Nut Lifestyle ( basegame-avoid takeout, quick meals, desserts, and eat fresh harvestables)

Add the Simple Living Lot Trait (once you have a sustainable garden) (basegame- grow your own ingredients as much as possible)

Max your Career or Renew Vows with Spouse

Max the Handiness Skill

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

OPTIONAL ASPECTS

SPECIAL COLOUR: Navy Blue and Grey

APPEARANCE: Oval or Slim Face, Small Build, Wears Sapphire Jewellery, Dresses Modestly

REQUIRED GENETICS/SPOUSE: Symmetrical Face, Plump or Curvy Body, Very Attractive

THE NEXT HEIR: Welcomed in the Fall

DEATH: "This Sim was eaten by a Cow Plant, and still feels a bit oddly towards plants. Can wither plants when angry."

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

CREDITS

A lot of my info is from The Only Astrology Book You Will Ever Need

My House Descriptions Astro Library

The cute Astrology wheel I am using DearHoroscope

The constellations Finder

Inspiration: I was watching this youtube video by Rosebud when they mentioned a Zodiac Legacy Challenge by Cowplant-Pizza!

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OPTIONAL MODS:

The Personality Mod By MissyHissy allows you to make this sim a Knowledge Sim with a custom reward trait

The Zodiac Signs Mod By Radiophobe allows you to make this Sim a Virgo with a custom reward trait

[radishreader]

I stood in my dining room surrounded by toys and the remnants of dinner from the night before sticking to the bottom of my feet. In the kitchen, a bag of trash was tipped over, its innards strewn across the floor. In the living room, a week’s worth of laundry had been waiting two weeks to be folded.

It was 9:45 a.m., and already I was exhausted. I’d come home at midnight the night before, only to have to wake up at 5 a.m. with my toddler son and then take him and his sister to school, before cleaning for the cleaning lady. I had four hours of childcare and two stories to write. My husband was at work; I was here with the mess.

I was 33, a mother of two, and bone-tired. I didn’t want the laundry and chores to be the rest of my life. I didn’t want to always be drowning in work and childcare and housecleaning and dinner, bearing the brunt of the labor. I’d spent the past two years begging for help with the kids and housework, only to be told that I could just quit my job if it was all too much. “It’s not too much,” I’d said over and over. “It’s just not all my job.”

Standing in the dining room, overwhelmed with the weight of my life, I broke.

The next day, in couples therapy, I asked for a divorce.

--------

Ten months before, I’d signed my first book contract. I signed the contract on my 33rd birthday, and it was a dream come true. I had spent 11 years writing three failed novels. One failed memoir. I’d attended an MFA program and then wrote a book proposal that hadn’t sold.

So we had children and I spent five years as a stay-at-home mother, writing in the crevices of my life—the late nights and early mornings. I had tried to find a job, but in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, jobs for writers were hard to find and plus, I’d done them all—proofreader, editor of a tae kwon do magazine, proposal writer, freelance columnist, marketing copywriter, college composition instructor, continuing education instructor teaching Word and Excel to people laid off during the recession.

We’d moved to Cedar Rapids for my husband’s dream job in 2005, and the plan was always that, eventually, we’d move for me. But each year passed and we never did. Once we had kids, even though his job was flexible and his boss was accommodating, I realized it would never be my turn. So I began freelancing like a maniac: sending late-night pitches to editors, conducting interviews while my whining toddler chased me around the park, leaving a trail of fruit snacks in his wake. I’d transcribe interviews and hear the echoes of Curious George in the background of the recordings.

Later I got some bylines and then, after years of work, in 2016, everything changed. An article I wrote got the attention of a university press; they wanted a book. Months later an editor at a different publishing house had been impressed by my writing and suggested a book based on a series I had written for the website Jezebel about motherhood and mythology.

In seven months I had two book deals.

It would be a lot more work; I knew that. But we could make it work. He had achieved his dream. Now I would achieve mine. What I needed was just a little help. Getting it was harder than I’d expected.

Ours was not a new story. It’s the story of every heterosexual couple in America. Statistically, women do more childcare and more housework, and it’s only getting worse in a pandemic, when all the safety nets we used to fill in the gaps are gone. No more house cleaners or nannies. No more daycare or even normal school. No more aging parents helping us. Nothing but us and the yawning gap in equality between us.

In the end I started writing the first book in stolen moments. Cobbling together money for babysitters meant wringing out paltry freelance checks. Orchestrating research trips felt like creating a Rube Goldberg machine—prepare freezer meals in advance, line up extra sitters, friends, maybe a grandma could come from out of town? My good friend Mel handled the dance recital’s dress rehearsal, complete with hair and makeup, and sent me a video of the practice. Somehow there was still never clean laundry. So I did what working women have done forever: I outsourced more. I hired a house cleaner, although my husband protested.

I didn’t get to write the bulk of that book until I landed a residency that would give me the break I needed. While I was gone, my son had walking pneumonia and fell and cut his lip at the Children’s Museum. My family told me I was being selfish. I needed to be with my children. “They have a father!” I shouted, “What about him?” I wrote 70,000 words in 30 days, because I knew if I didn’t write it then, I’d never be able to do it. The very next month, I stood in that toy-strewn dining room, cracking under the pressure. Then I moved out....

[jamiespoppinss]

dani and jamie fanfics (ao3)

Miss Clayton - Jamie meets her little brother Mikey's new teacher, Miss Clayton and instantly falls head over heals for her. Snapshots of Dani, Jamie and Mikey's life together.

Our moments fall around us like confetti - A collection of moments from Dani and Jamie's life together.

Chosen Family - After leaving America and moving to England for a fresh start, Dani Clayton finds out that she's pregnant and what she had thought would be the loneliest journey for her to take, actually leads her to find her chosen family.

Do you want some company - Dani is stuck in her small hometown working a dead-end job at a rundown motel hoping to save up to go to college one day to become a teacher when she meets Jamie, a young truck driver who stops to help her when her truck breaks down one afternoon. When they realise that they could both use a little company, they come up with a solution. But how long will it last before one of them catches feelings? Or the trucker/friends with benefits au that nobody asked for.

Dani and Jamie in Lockdown - Snapshots of Dani and Jamie's life in lockdown with their son Mason and their daughter Blake.

My house of stone, your ivy grows (and now I’m covered in you) - Dani and Eddie have just moved to England when Dani meets a beautiful young landscaper who they hire to design their garden and has her questioning everything that she’s ever known. Based on the song ‘ivy’ by Taylor Swift.

and all at once, you are the one I have been waiting for - After Jamie moves to Florida to work for Owen’s pool cleaning company, she meets Dani, a single Mom of two young children who quickly grow attached to the woman who they had hired to clean their pool and very unexpectedly, the feelings are reciprocated. Neither Jamie nor Dani were looking for a relationship but things very quickly start to blossom between the pair after a little push from Ben and Ava. or, the milf dani and pool cleaner jamie au that absolutely no one asked for!

what died didn't stay dead (you’re alive in my head) - After a life changing event at work, bomb disposal officer Jamie Taylor-Clayton struggles to deal with her grief and the life that she once knew being turned upside down. After starting a concerning downward spiral of poor choices and destructive coping mechanisms, her wife, daughter and friends fight hard to get her back, but will the old Jamie that everyone knew and loved be able to find her way back to her family before she pushes them too far? Or the bomb disposal au that nobody asked for!

‘Tis The Damn Season - Dani is reluctant to travel home for the weekend to attend her Mother's wedding but Dani is glad she did when she bumps into her friend Jamie. Based on 'Tis The Damn Season by Taylor Swift.

The world through your lens - Jamie, a florist with a passion for photography, has her life turned upside down after a chance encounter with a young woman who gives her photography, as well as her life, new meaning.

Dani and Jamie’s 10 Year Anniversary - Dani and Jamie celebrate their 10 year anniversary together.

A Loving Home - Dani and Jamie's fostering journey. Set six years after they had first met (set in present times) and follows their journey to becoming foster parents, the children they foster, the challenges they face and the little family that they create.

This Precious Life of Ours - Series of Damietober one shots.

and one the flame of love ignites, it’s beyond your control - Dani, a dedicated and enthusiastic primary school teacher, had adapted to her new life in the sleepy and quaint town of Bly well. It had been five years since she had left her hometown in search of happiness, a better career and to find herself and she had achieved everything that she had intended to, although for a while, she had felt like there was still something missing. However, that had all changed when Jamie, a charismatic and endearing firefighter unexpectedly came into her life and she finally understood the meaning of love.

i can’t say ‘hello’ to you, and risk another ‘goodbye’ - After losing her wife, Jamie and her daughter Clover, find comfort and routine in going to their local library each day whilst trying to come to terms with their loss. It is there where they meet Dani, the new librarian coming to terms with a loss of her own and beginning a new life in England, and a relationship soon forms, despite both of them being apprehensive to love again.

[labyrinth-runner]

"I... Think I'm in love" with Dan?????

Okay, so I’m writing this one as a sequel to War of Hearts, because it just fit and I hope that’s okay.

Title: Love Heals

Word Count: 3000

Your wedding night was quiet. He helped you with the ties of your gown and then retired to his own room. The bed felt too big for just you alone as you tossed and turned trying to get comfortable. Eventually, you grew tired of it and slipped on your robe before padding down the hall.

You took a steeling breath before gently rapping your knuckles against the door.

The door was open in a matter of seconds and he was looking down at you with concern in his eyes, “Couldn’t sleep?”

“The bed is just...” you trailed off, looking down at your feet. You felt silly, standing in front of this stranger because you couldn’t sleep.

Gently, he tipped your chin back up so that you would look at him, “Would you like to sleep in here?” His voice was soft.

You allowed yourself to nod.

A small smile settled on his lips as he stepped aside for you to enter. 

Tucking your arms behind your back, you stepped into his candlelit room. You noted that his bed wasn’t turned down yet, meaning he hadn’t even gone to bed. As you turned back to him, you realized he was still in his suit.

“What were you doing before I knocked?” you asked curiously as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“I was writing to my estate to have them ready the manor for you,” he replied.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, “You want me to go to the manor without you?”

“It’s to be your home,” he said, brows furrowing.

“But you won’t be there,” you murmured.

“If you would like, you can host as many friends as you want,” he offered as he leaned against his desk.

If you were being honest, you weren’t sure you were ready to leave home and your parents. “How far away is it?”

“Two day’s ride,” he estimated. “It’s in upstate New York. I own an apple orchard.”

Somehow, you could see that. You rested your hands on your hips as you came over to him, “Am I expected to pick these apples?”

“Only if you want to eat or cook with them,” he smirked.

You smiled back, feeling the tension break. Then, you folded your hands in front of you. “When do you have to go back to the frontline?”

“At the end of the week,” he replied, gently reaching forward to take your hands in his. They were warm and slightly rough against your skin as he dragged his thumb back and forth across the backs of your hand.

“You should get some rest,” you said softly, taking your hands back. Your hands trembled slightly as you reached up to unbutton his vest. “At the very least, you should get more comfortable.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, taking your hand and kissing your finger tips. “Get some sleep. I’ll join you when I finish this letter.”

You withdrew from him, slightly in relief, and slightly in disappointment. Gingerly, you took your robe off and hung it off the bed post before slipping into bed. After closing your eyes, you let the soft sound of his pen dragging across a page lull you to sleep.

The days passed by swiftly. It wasn’t nearly enough time to truly get to know your husband. Soon enough, you found yourself at the train station about to say goodbye.

“Well, this next one is mine,” he murmured as you stood there on the platform.

“Will you write to me?” you asked, a little too eagerly.

“If you wish it,” he said with a slight smile. “Although, I don’t suppose that my stories of war would be pleasant to hear.”

“If you don’t wish to talk about war, then romance me instead,” you shot back.

A slight tinge of pink settled into his cheeks. “Alright, Mrs. Torrance. I think I can do that.”

Mrs. Torrance. It was like an arrow to your heart.

His train pulled up to the station and he gave you an apologetic look. “I wish we had more time.”

“Win the war and you’ll be back before you know it,” you replied with a soft smile. “Be safe, Captain Torrance.”

“I’ll try to come back to you in one piece,” he said, taking your hand and giving it a squeeze.

It wasn’t enough for the occasion. He was going off to fight and you might never see him again. Sure, you barely knew him and had only been married for a week, but a hand squeeze was not enough for the gravity of the situation. You tipped up on your toes to kiss his cheek, letting your lips linger on his skin for a moment more than you would have a week ago.

“Good bye, Captain,” you said as you pulled back.

“Good bye, my dear,” he grinned before saluting the superior officer ushering troops onto the train.

You stayed on the platform longer than necessary, not moving from your spot until the train was far into the distance and had disappeared around the bend. Then, you got into the carriage with all your things atop it and rode for your new home.

                                 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The manor sprawled in front of you. An orchard engulfed the horizon around the house and you could not help the smile on your face. It was so much grander than he had told you. 

As the carriage pulled up the drive, you let a small chuckle escape your lips. This was your home? It was so much more than you could have imagined. Stepping out of the carriage, the cool, crisp air filled your lungs. It was so much cleaner than the city.

Hired help unloaded your bags into the manor as you went up the stairs of the porch. 

“Mrs. Torrance, this was left for you,” the butler said before handing you a letter.  

You took it, walking absentmindedly through the house as you explored.  

Eventually, you happened upon what you figured was your husband’s study. Books lined the walls and a large brown mahogany desk sat amidst it all. You ran your hand along the leather chair before sitting down and opening the letter.

Dear wife,

If you’re reading this, then you have arrived at Helen Rivington Estate without me. It’s something I would have liked to avoid. After all, I should have carried you across the threshold as any husband ought. I can only hope that absence will make the heart grow fonder. In lieu of my physically being there, I thought I would leave you a little hunt around the grounds to show you my favorite places.

Until we meet again,

Dan

You flipped the letter over and found a series of clues. A grin broke across your face as you started off on your quest.

The hunt took you all around the estate as you found little clues and poems that let you get to know the man you had married more and more. By the end of it all, you found yourself in a secret library behind the room you’d started in. Light streamed in through a stained glass window, coating a plush chair in a warm glow. If the room outside was your husband’s study, then this would be your special place that you could go to be close to him when he needed to work.

You sat down on the chair and started to pen your first letter to him, telling him all about your day’s adventures. Words flowed freely with more ease than earlier that week. You were comfortable with who you were, and what it would be like to be Mrs. Torrance.

It was the first letter of many that the two of you sent back and forth for months while he was away. With each stroke of the pen you fell more and more in love with him. Rarely did he ever mention the war, true to his earlier statement. Although, sometimes you wish he had. You wanted to know what life was like for him. You wanted to share in his struggles and emotional hardships. 

Every response contained a small couplet of a poem that he wrote for you, usually based upon the contents in your letter. However, they always made you smile. Although he wasn’t home, his letters made it feel as if he were only a moment away at all times. It made the loneliness of the vast estate and the quiet of your bedchambers more bearable as it filled with your laughter at his words.

And then the letters stopped.

You weren’t sure if it was something you had done or if something had happened, but you went through your days with a pit in your stomach. Something was wrong, but you didn’t know what. Weeks without correspondence turned to months and you found yourself retreating back into your worries and sadness. Part of you debated returning home to surround yourself with those you knew and loved.

The idea was growing more and more appealing as the seasons changed and you found yourself pulling the shawl tighter around yourself as you walked in the orchard. You had sent staff home for the season and were walking through the rows of trees with a basket in hand. Absentmindedly, you picked apples and placed them into the basket, letting the silence surround you.

Then you heard it.

The familiar clip clop of horses hooves up the gravel drive. 

You stood in disbelief, sure that you were hearing things until you saw the carriage come down the drive. The basket fell from your hands and you hiked up your skirts. You scrambled over fallen apples and tree roots to get back up the drive. 

Your heart hammered in your chest as you took in the body on the back of the cart. 

“No,” you whispered, dropping your gown. You walked towards the carriage in a haze.

“Ma’am, are you Mrs. Torrance?” the man driving the cart asked.

“Yes,” you breathed as he came to a stop.

The man nodded and got into the back of the carriage. “Come on, Danny. You’re home,” he said as he pulled a man up into a position so that he could help him walk.

You let out a breath of relief. He’s alive. Then, you rushed over to help the man carry your husband into the house. Together, the two of you managed to get him into bed.

“What happened?” you asked the man who had brought him.

“The Captain was sent sprawling from canon fire after being shot in the arm. We were deep in the South for weeks. I’m surprised he lasted as many skirmishes as he did. Then, he got hit down in Georgia. The camp doc was able to get the bullet out of his arm and disinfect it. It won’t go green on you, but he can’t shoot in this condition. If he can’t shoot, he’s better off staying home,” the man explained. “Besides, the doc said that being home with his lovely wife would recover him faster than seeing our ugly mugs.”

You had to crack a smile at that.

“Ma’am, if I may be so bold,” the man replied, “Your husband is one of the bravest men I’ve ever known. I wish him a speedy recovery.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, seeing the other man out the door. 

After he left, you returned to the side of the bed with some fresh water and cloths. Gently, you dabbed at your husband’s face, cleaning off the dirt and ash that had settled there.

“I must look like a mess,” he murmured, eyes still closed.

“No worse than when I married you,” you teased.

“You wound me more than any bullet could,” he smirked, opening his eyes to look at you. They softened as he saw the worry lines etched on your face. Gently, he reached up with his good arm to swipe away a tear you hadn’t noticed.

You covered his hand with your own, leaning into his touch. “When you didn’t respond,” you sniffled, “I thought the worst. I thought you were killed or that you regretted this.”

“Oh, sweetheart, never,” he sighed, rubbing his thumb along your cheek. “I promised you I’d come back.”

“In one piece, Captain,” you shot back.

“Dan,” he smirked. “If you’re going to yell at me, at least use my given name.”

You couldn’t stay mad at him. It was in that moment that you realized, full and truly that you loved him. Yet, in the back of your mind, you remembered all the constraint of your wedding night and the distance he had purposely put between the two of you.

“We’ve got to clean you up,” you replied. “If your face is this dirty, I can’t imagine what the rest of you is like.”

Dan winced as you helped him sit up before gently starting to disrobe his torso. 

Avoiding eye contact, you set to work smoothing a clean cloth over his body, working in slow circles to clear the caked on dirt and grime. 

“You’re holding your breath,” you murmured, looking up at him through your lashes as you focused on his chest.

“You’re so close,” he replied.

“I’m your wife,” you said with a chuckle, “Is it so wrong that I am close?”

“No,” he swallowed, “I’m just not used to it.”

You nodded, finishing up your work. “I’ll wash your uniform. Let me just find you some replacement clothes first.”

“I can dress myself,” he quickly said.

You gave him a skeptical look. “If you need me, call for me. I should start dinner soon.”

He nodded, watching you as you left.

As the door clicked shut behind you, a feeling of disappointment washed over you. It wasn’t a flat out rejection, but it felt like one. Perhaps you were overthinking it. You shoved it aside and decided to work at the matter at hand, nursing your husband back to health.

                                       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Over the next couple of weeks, the two of you grew closer. You’d talk in the sun room over tea; you’d read together in the study; you even showed him how you had redecorated the secret library to suit your interests. Discussion flowed just as easily now as it had in your letters. Yet, every time you’d make physical progress towards intimacy, he’d pull back. 

It was infuriating. 

One day, while you were picking apples in the fields together, you confronted him. “Why do you always pull away when I get close?”

Dan stopped a few paces behind you while still holding the basket, “What do you mean?”

“Whenever I get too close to you, you pull away. It’s like we take three steps forward and two steps back,” you sighed, turning back to face him. Gently, you took the basket from him and placed it on the ground to take his hand. 

He interlocked his fingers with yours, “I don’t always.”

“Dan,” you murmured. “I....think I’m in love.”

He dropped your hand and shook his head. “You can’t mean that.”

“I can, and I do,” you pleaded.

He was pulling away yet again, but this time you wouldn’t let him. Gripping the collar of his shirt, you pulled him down to your level and kissed him. To your surprise, he started to kiss back. His arm snaked around your waist to pull you flush against him before he pinned you to a tree. His hand came up to cup the side of your face as he deepened the kiss. Your mind was racing as you registered the feeling of his soft lips against yours. How someone could kiss in such a loving, yet passionate way was new to you. Eventually, you broke the kiss for air.

“I thought you didn’t-” you started.

“I love you,” Dan said sincerely.

“But-”

He gave you another quick kiss. “I know you didn’t want this, so I didn’t want to push you.”

“I didn’t at first,” you admitted, leaning your head back against the tree trunk to look up at him. “But, then I got to know you and I fell in love with you.”

“Oh?” he asked with a large grin on his face. 

“Yes,” you grinned back. “I’m proud to be Mrs. Torrance.”

Without warning, he scooped you up in his arms. 

“Danny!” you laughed as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “What are you doing?”

“If you remember correctly, I told you that I wanted to carry you into our home when you moved in here,” Dan told him. “I plan to do that.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “I won’t protest.”

He carried you through the house and towards the bedroom. As he opened the door with his back, you heard the distant sound of bells.

“What’s that about?” you asked curiously.

Dan beamed as he looked down at you. “The war’s over. Those are the celebration bells.”

“So you’re home for good now?” you asked, trying to keep the obvious glee from your voice.

“I’m home for good,” he grinned before kissing you deeply as he lowered you to the bed.

[xpedropascal]

To Be So Lonely [Maxwell Lord x Reader] Part One

Summary: After being struck by a family tragedy, Maxwell Lord finds his legacy in taking over his father’s business, Black Gold Cooperative. Cold and shut-off from the world around him, he decides he does not have time for anything other than his work and cares only about pushing his company to success – but how difficult does that become for him when you enter his life as a ghost from the past?

Pairing: Maxwell Lord x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

WARNINGS: mention of financial instability, absent parents, emotional abuse

PART ONE // PART TWO // PART THREE // PART FOUR [coming soon!]

MASTERLIST

KO-FI

AUTHOR’S NOTE: my first ever fan-fiction! please be kind :) flashbacks can be identified through use of italics. To Be So Lonely will have themes of hurt/comfort, angst, fluff etc. i plan on it being an exciting ride. there will be connections to the DCEU and certain characters will be making an appearance... however, for story-telling purposes, this will be in an alternate universe to Wonder Woman 1984 just because the movie has yet to be released. the main bulk of the story will be set in the 80s, with the occasional childhood flashback. please let me know if you want to be added onto a tag list!

♡ ♡ ♡ ONE ♡ ♡ ♡

Stepping foot into the lobby of Lord Manor had you in awe. Their family home was huge, and certainly unlike anything you had ever seen before. Even at your tender age, you were mesmerised by the glistening marble floor and gold décor. It enchanted you. Curiosity filled you and you unlaced your fingers from your mother’s and found yourself drawn to a vase of crimson red roses to the left of the staircase, rubbing at the soft petals. You clambered up the main staircase. It was enormous, but you were so taken in by the traditional oil paintings that covered the walls. They were everywhere but you could still make out the elegant wallpaper that looked as though it had come straight out of the 1800’s. One painting in particular, located at the top of the staircase, stole your attention. It was, perhaps, ten times the size of you and looked almost haunting. Even at your young age, you were able to identify it as a family portrait. It pictured a tall man in a suit with broad shoulders holding a cigar in one hand. His free hand was wrapped around one of the most beautiful women you had ever seen. Very Marilyn Monroe-esque, with pearls around her neck and, blonde curly hair, she looked like she came straight out of a silver-screen movie. But what attracted you most about the painting, was the young boy, suited up in the centre. He looked like a prince- with dark blonde hair and a smile that could light up a room. You reached out your small fingers and touched the boy’s face, feeling the dry paint hard against your skin.

You jumped as your mother hissed your name. She ran up the stairs and scolded you gently for running off. She picked you up in her arms and smoothed down your hair. “Remember you must be on your best behaviour for Mr and Mrs Lord. We need to set a really good first impression.” Your mother informed you and you nodded your head obediently in response.

“Well well well,” your mother spun her heel around to see Naomi Lord standing at the bottom of the carpeted staircase, her ice blue eyes locked on to you both. You recognised her as the beautiful lady from the oil painting. “It seems you have already made yourself comfortable in my family home.”

“My apologies, Mrs Lord,” your mother said frantically as she carefully made her way down the grand staircase, still holding you in her arms. “Uhm- this is my daughter-“

Your mother attempted to introduce you but Mrs Lord raised her hand, cutting her off. “My husband Maxwell Lord III will not be joining us this evening. As you can imagine, he is swarmed with work.” The way Naomi Lord suddenly changed the subject proved that she simply did not care. In fact, it was well-known that Naomi Lord did not involve herself with anyone who she felt like were less than her. Less wealthy, less privileged- she certainly wanted no involvement with you and your mother. Your mother had left her minimum wage job and had travelled all the way from your tiny one bedroom box apartment in Gotham for this job opportunity. “Nevertheless, we have decided to offer you the job, assuming you are willing to take it.”

You felt your mother’s grip tighten around you as you sensed her excitement. “Yes! Yes of course Mrs Lord. I would be honoured.”

Mrs Lord’s lips curved into a devlish smile. “The hours will be those of a nine-to-five. I’m assuming you have a place of residence nearby?”

Your mother faltered. “Uhm,” you watched Mrs Lord’s smirk fall from her face. “Actually no… I travelled here from Gotham and booked into a motel for a few nights.” Naomi Lord probably didn’t even realise her own face was twisting at the thought of an ashy motel, but she made her disgust incredibly evident. “And actually… I can’t afford to take my child to a nursery, or hire a babysitter, and we don’t yet have proper home. I mean, I can’t leave my little girl in the motel all alone. I know I should’ve thought about it more but, we really don’t have much, Mrs Lord. Would it be possible, if, during my working hours, she could occupy herself here? She is well behaved, I promise, and won’t get in the way of you or your husband-“

“You will address my husband as Mr Lord,” Naomi snapped. “I will speak to Maxwell about this… inconvenience of yours, and we will have someone give you a call regarding the outcome. You are excused to leave now.”

Your mother found herself nodding. “It was so lovely to meet you Mrs Lord.”

Naomi chuckled. “Toodles.”

♡

“She will glady take the job Maxwell,” Naomi perched herself on the corner of her husband, Maxwell Lord III’s,  home office desk. Her blonde hair balanced on her shoulders in tight curls and her ruby red lips shimmered under the amber light. “But I have been made aware that she is a single mother, struggling financially. If she is to work here all day, she has nobody to watch over her daughter. Can’t even afford basic level childcare.”

Maxwell Lord III hesitated, fumbling with his gold fountain pen. “Her daughter is… how old?”

“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Lord admitted with a gentle shrug of her shoulders. “I’d estimate a few years younger than our Max.”

Mr Lord looked over at the framed photo of his twelve year old son. Their son, Maxwell Lord IV, was a cheerful young boy. Privately educated, of course, but always achieved the best grades. He was sociable too, always making an appearance at his parent’s parties and events. Still only a child, his father’s business partners were smitten with Maxwell Lord IV, and while Mr Lord didn’t have the closest relationship with his son, he loved him dearly. Max admired his father, and wanted to be just like him when he grew up. His father was the CEO of Black Gold Cooperative, the Lord family business, and what would inevitably go on to be Max’s legacy. His father had a heart of gold, and even his employees would agree that he was a joy to work for. But unfortunately, being the CEO of the empire that was Black Gold Cooperative meant Mr Lord had very little, if not any time to be with his son. Nevertheless, Max loved his father unconditionally, and did not know any different. Despite being sociable, Max was a lonesome child, not having any friends, other than the cooks, cleaners and butlers who seemed to come and go as they pleased.

“We will have Mary-Angela clear out the guest house before she leaves on Monday.” Mr Lord said matter of factly, deciding he had come to a suitable conclusion.

“Wait,” Mrs Lord replied, knotting her eyebrows together in confusion. “You’re not seriously suggesting-“

“That Ms Y/L/N and her daughter are welcome to stay here? Yes.” Mr Lord finished his wife’s sentence. “I know it might seem a little strange but actually it’s quite common… I mean look at Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne of Gotham. When they had Alfred Pennyworth move in it served as good publicity for Wayne Enterprises. They were seen as caring and relatable. Please darling, we can provide them with financial aid. It is the right thing to do.”

Mrs Lord stood up abruptly, twisting her face. “We are not a charity, Maxwell.” Mrs Lord snarled. “We are the Lord family-“

Mr Lord shook his head, beginning to feel frustrated at his wife’s selfishness. “Family? Really? When was the last time you attended one of Max’s piano performances or took him to the dancing class he has so desperately been wishing to attend?” Maxwell Lord III may have been a kind man but it was his wife who was almost always on the receiving end of his short temper.

Mrs Lord rolled her eyes before walking straight out of her husband’s office. Yes, the Lord family needed a maid, and your mother was the perfect candidate – but Mrs Lord was not willing to associate with locals. Mrs Lord’s heels clicked against the marble floor, and she walked straight past her twelve year old son who had been listening in on his parent’s conversation. Twelve-year-old Max felt tears well in his eyes. He hated hearing his parents fight, and now, it was happening more than ever. Max closed his eyes and sunk against the wall, sobbing quietly.

♡

Of course, your mother was granted the job. The Lord family guest house would be your new home for the next four years. Despite it only being a guest house, it was so much bigger than your boxed Gotham apartment and it was decorated beautifully, much like the interior of Lord Manor. Little did you know that the next four years would be a blessing in disguise.

In his spare time, Maxwell Lord IV would play piano or read works of fiction. He didn’t really have a normal childhood, or learn what fun was, until he met you. The day he made your acquaintance was the day you moved in. Hearing you scream interrupted him from studying literature. He heard you scream again, but this time you were louder and more distressed. On instinct, he managed to find his feet and hurried to the bay window of his bedroom, only to see you running around in a floral dress, continuing to scream. Maxwell spent no time watching you and ran as fast as he could to where you were in the garden between his home and the guest house.

“Are you okay?” he shouted after you. You gasped when you heard his voice and spun around to see the boy from the oil painting. And he was so handsome.

“Oh, my prince!” You gasped, swinging your arms around Maxwell who had once again froze up. “Quick, help me slay this dragon!” Maxwell watched you point at… absolutely nothing. He hesitated for a few seconds and you started to run around, screaming again and play fighting the air. This act you were playing out reminded him of one of his favourite novels, and in that moment, Maxwell knew what he had to do. He pretended to pull out a sword.

“Don’t worry my princess, I’ll protect you!” Maxwell shouted. You watched the boy play fight the imaginary dragon in awe.

Once Maxwell had decided that he defeated the dragon, he stood there, breathless but proud. You sneaked up from behind and planted a kiss on Maxwell’s cheek.

“You’re my hero.”

[goldenraeofsun]

would you have me, would you want me?

Part I

Castiel wipes his sweaty hands on his slacks. 

He tugs at the tie strangling him, and runs a hand through his hair. He grimaces. So much for all the preparation he put into his appearance in front of the mirror twenty minutes ago.

He inhales a deep breath and steps inside his high school for the first time in ten years.

The fluorescent lighting doesn’t do the old halls any favors, and the entryway, at least, smells violently of lemon-scented cleaner. There have been a few pathetic attempts at livening up the stubbornly beige walls - colorful signs mark the way to the gym, like Castiel would ever forget even after ten years.

It’s strange to see the place so empty.

“Hello!” Becky, their alumni representative, waves him over to a table just inside the entryway. It’s completely cluttered with bits of paper and blank name tags. “Are you here for the reunion?”

Castiel coughs. “Yes.”

“So glad to have you here,” Becky says as Castiel drags his feet closer. “Name?”

“Castiel Novak?”

“Oh!” Becky says, her eyes widening. “I hardly recognized you without the books, and the coat, and the...” she gestures vaguely to her own face, which Castiel takes to mean the semi-permanent scowl he wore all throughout high school. Before Castiel can react, she ducks her head and drags her finger down a clipboard. “Alright, Castiel, I’ll mark you down as present. Fill out a name tag if you want, and here are your tickets for your two drinks. Would you like to enter the fundraising raffle? We’re hoping to send the volleyball team to nationals this year.”

Castiel quails under Becky’s doe eyes and forks over ten dollars for the raffle. He also writes out a name tag, since his classmates might have the same reaction as Becky.

Armed with his name tag and drinks tickets, he follows the signs to the gym.

* * *

Cas wipes his sweaty hands on his slacks.

He shouldn’t have agreed to this. He doesn’t go to parties. He is not a partier. The closest he’s ever come to one was after his brother’s graduation, but that was eleven years ago. Cas was seven.

Cas successfully avoided all high school parties for the past three and a half years, but apparently nothing lasts forever.

Biting his lip, he presses down hard on Tessa’s doorbell. 

The door opens, and Cas barely has enough time to school his face into a less terrified expression before Tessa appears. “You’re not the pizza man,” she says, frowning.

Cas blinks at her. “I... sorry?” He offers the wine Uncle Marv gifted his parents, the one Cas’s mother promised never to drink in a million years.

Tessa’s face brightens as she takes it from him. “Who invited you?”

“Dean - Dean Winchester,” Cas says, like there could be any other Dean that mattered at Edlund High.

Tessa opens the door wider, calling over her shoulder, “Dean!”

Cas steps inside without waiting for Dean to rescue him. Dean is probably too occupied to see him inside - or so Cas assumes. He’s never been to a party like this before, but even the senior year loner hears about the types of things Dean gets up to at events like these. 

Cas follows Tessa past a flight of roped-off stairs further into the house. The noise and the people hit him full force in a dimly lit living room. Music blasts from speakers connected to a massive entertainment center. The whole area is jam-packed with teenagers and smells strongly of beer and hormones. Cas scans the crowd, recognizing more faces than not, to his relief. 

“Kitchen’s that way,” Tessa says loudly, pointing to a door, bright light spilling from beyond. “If you want to get a drink, be my guest.” She shoulders past a group of girls from Cas’s homeroom and disappears from sight.

Cas heads for the kitchen. Maybe he can clear his head there and come up with a plan. Or maybe he can get drunk enough not to care about all the bad decisions that led him here.

* * *

Castiel turns at the sound of his name.

He spins around in place, searching the faces in the gym for one he recognizes.

“Cas, you made it!”

Castiel stumbles as Charlie’s arms wrap around him. “I didn’t think you’d come,” she says as she steps away, a broad grin stretching across her face.

“I live in the next school district over. I’m sure people traveled farther than that.”

“Yeah, but,” Charlie says awkwardly, “I know high school wasn’t the best time for you.”

Castiel’s mouth twitches. “Only the last few months of senior year. The rest went well enough.” He scans the gym before meeting Charlie’s knowing gaze. 

Charlie winks at him. It’s not like she couldn’t put the pieces together herself. Most of their points of conversation revolve around a shared high school experience, so naturally Dean comes up once or twice (or a dozen times) during their sporadic get togethers.

It was even nice, sometimes, since Charlie is the only person from his teenage years he sees anymore. 

“I know what you’re talking about,” Charlie says with a shudder. “I got bangs for senior year. Bangs.”

Castiel smiles weakly. “You could have made worse decisions.”

"If we’re going to talk about how dumb we were as teenagers, then I’m going to need another drink,” Charlie says as they make their way to the makeshift bar. “Don’t worry,” she says in an undertone, “He’s not here yet.”

“He’s coming?”

Charlie throws him a look. “Dude, he’s the newest hire in the English department. There’s no way he got out of attending his own reunion.”

Castiel absentmindedly nods along as he looks around. There’s a slideshow projecting onto a far wall, showing candid shots from ten years ago. About fifty people mill around the gym, chatting in little groups, nobody Castiel recognizes. More than a few people huddle over their own on their phones, ignoring everyone else.

He asks, “Is this typically what happens at these things?”

“How should I know?” Charlie says as they get in line. “This is my first reunion too.”

Castiel turns to her. “You didn’t go to our five year?”

Charlie wrinkles her nose. “I was kind of in hot water for hacking into NORAD so I laid low in Norway until everything died down.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Why would a tech consultant for Roman Enterprises hack into NORAD?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Charlie shoots back.

Castiel has no retort prepared, so he steps up to trade his ticket for a glass of cheap wine. “How is Dorothy doing?”

“She’s good. Away at a meteorology conference, but those’re the hazards of dating a nerd.” Charlie exhales a long-suffering sigh, watching with mild interest as the bartender pours out Castiel’s glass.

Castiel snorts. “I wouldn’t know.”

Charlie elbows him playfully in the side. “’Course you don’t. You always liked them dumber, didn’t you?”

“Dean wasn’t dumb.”

Charlie cackles as she hands over her own ticket to the bartender. “I didn’t say anyone’s name.”

* * *

Cas turns at the sound of his name. 

“Dean?” he answers.

Tessa’s kitchen is only slightly quieter than the living room, but not much. There are fewer people here, though, which leaves Cas some breathing room. 

Dean strides up to him, a red cup of something in his hand and a grin on his face. Party-goer Dean doesn’t look any different than Student Dean, clad in worn jeans and his favorite Led Zeppelin short sleeved shirt. “Hey, man. I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“Of course,” Cas says, clutching his own drink tightly. “You invited me.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, his gaze skittering away, “this isn’t your usual scene, though.”

“I can try new things.” Cas takes a sip of his punch and makes a face at the overwhelmingly sweet taste. “It is our senior year, so I thought it might be time.”

“Whatever, man,” Dean says with a laugh, “as long as it got you out of the library.”

Cas’s frown deepens. “What’s wrong with the library?”

“Nothing,” Dean says, eyes widening. He raises his free hand, palm out, in a gesture of no-harm. “It’s just not the sort of place you’d go for a good time, you know what I mean?”

Cas’s eyes narrow. “I’ve had plenty of good times in the library.”

Dean snorts a laugh. “Not the kind I was talking about, Cas.”

Cas hasn’t ever gotten blown in the book stacks of the library like some pornography had indicated was possible, but he won’t call his time spent there a total waste. He says, “If it hadn’t been for our enjoyable tutoring sessions in the library, I wouldn’t be here.”

Dean beams at him. “Yeah, I’m kind of sorry they’re over, but I guess our grades don’t matter any more.”

“What?” Cas blinks at him. “Our grades matter.”

“Dude, it’s April.”

“Colleges can still rescind acceptance letters.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Come on, you nerd,” he grabs Cas by the hand. “We can’t block the line to the booze or Tessa'll murder me.”

Cas lets himself get led back out into the living room, a bemused expression on his face. The music and the chatter of a dozen different conversations hit him like a palpable slap to the face.

“What do we do now?” Cas asks loudly, as he throws back the rest of his cup of punch. It is much more tolerable in larger, quicker doses.

Dean glances around before leaning closer so Cas could hear him. “Whatever you want.”

Cas shivers as Dean’s breath ghosts over his ear and down his neck.

“We got the dancers, the stoners, the wallflowers,” Dean points each out, “the horndogs...”

Cas tears his gaze away from Charlie and Gilda, entwined on the couch. “Where do you fall?”

“Me?” Dean asks, surprised. He holds up his drink, a smile playing around his lips. “It’s a little early to tell. This is only my third one. Speaking of,” he takes Cas’s drink and drains it, “We should get you another one. You’re barely caught up to me.”

Cas dumbly takes his cup back. If he refills this cup, his lips might touch the same surface Dean’s had. The ghost of a kiss.

It was a technique old Hollywood films used to indicate romantic attraction, since kissing on-screen was heavily restricted. Characters would share cigarettes, food, and drinks instead of touching, especially if the relationship was taboo and wouldn’t pass the censors.

Cas stares up at Dean, uncomprehending.

“Come on, man,” Dean says as he nudges Cas back towards the kitchen. “Before all the good booze is gone.”

* * *

Castiel chokes on his drink.

Charlie gives him a few hard whacks on the back, giggling under her breath. “I know Dean’s hot and all, but that doesn’t mean you have to do a spit take when you see him.”

“I was surprised,” Castiel says defensively as he desperately tries to regain his composure.

“Uh huh.” Charlie smirks, eyebrows waggling. “Want me to call him over? I don’t think he’s spotted us yet.”

Castiel swallows down the rising tide of panic in the back of his throat. For God’s sake, he’s nearly thirty years old. He can’t go to pieces over Dean Winchester, not again. 

It’s just been a while. He hasn’t had a boyfriend in several years. All his friends, Charlie included, are taken or aromantic, and lately Castiel’s been feeling like the odd bachelor out.

Dean probably isn’t all Castiel has been building up in his head. It’s been ten years, after all. Dean must have changed.

Castiel certainly has. He’s no longer the loner who filled his life with facts and grades instead of friends. Well, he still has school, but at least this time around he’s the one grading tests instead of being graded.

But it’s Dean. The one who got away - or ran away, in Dean’s case.

Charlie waves and calls Dean’s name, and, before Castiel can wrap his head around what’s happening, Dean is in front of them, in all his glory. Ten years older, but no less handsome. He still has those barely-there freckles splattered across his cheeks.

“So how’ve you been?” Dean asks Charlie.

“Can’t complain.” Charlie shakes her head. “I got a new haircut.”

“The bob suits you, Red,” Dean says, grinning as he reaches out to ruffle it.

Charlie dodges, one finger in his face in warning. “You touch it and you die, Handmaiden. It doesn’t look this natural naturally.”

“Fair,” Dean says, hands in the air.

Castiel watches them both, a sinking feeling in his gut. He’s been here before, watching from the sidelines as Dean joked and teased his friends. In the same room but also miles away.

He shouldn’t have expected any different.

Ten years, and nothing has changed.

But then Charlie punches Dean in the arm, throwing a significant look at Castiel, and Castiel’s mood sinks lower. He doesn’t need Charlie to make Dean pay attention to him; that wasn’t the point of coming here tonight.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says quietly.

Castiel clears his throat. “Hello, Dean.”

Onto Part II

[datheetjoella]

Fantober 2020, Day 30: Domesticated

Author: DatHeetJoella Fandom: Free! Pairing: MakoHaru Rating: T Part: 30/31 (read the full collection here) Word count: 1,821 Tags: Canonverse, Established Relationship, Fluff, Domesticity, Accidental Marriage Proposal Read at: AO3, FFn, or right here!

                                             -----------------------------------

Unlike many others, Haruka didn't go to work in the morning with dread in his gut. He had turned his passion into his career and despite there still being days when we'd rather swim leisurely than be barked at by his coach, he hadn't reached the point yet where he had gotten tired of training.

Nevertheless, Haruka's favourite moment of the day was unlocking the door to their apartment, where he could relax on the couch and unwind in the bath, but most importantly, where he could see Makoto again. Finally, that moment had arrived.

Muffled noises resonated through the walls, informing him that Makoto was home early. That knowledge brought a smile to Haruka's face. Although his day had been pretty good so far, he could always use a bright grin, a loving embrace and a tender kiss. Time to replenish his Makoto-well.

He stashed his key back into his pocket and pushed down the doorknob. "I'm home," he called out as he kicked off his shoes. He didn't get a response, so he ditched his bag in front of the bathroom door and went inside.

Makoto was standing in the middle of the living room with his back turned to him, pushing their wireless, low-decibel vacuum around the coffee table. It had been a gift from his mom on his previous birthday - yes, Haruka had reached the age where his parents gave him practical things as presents. Recently, she had become obsessed with high-tech appliances and after he off-handedly mentioned the cord of the vacuum getting tangled when he was on the phone with her while cleaning, she took it upon herself to rid him of those issues.

It had cost far more than Haruka would ever be willing to pay for a vacuum cleaner, but admittedly, it performed amazingly and left their old, cheap one in the dust. Vacuuming had been at the bottom of both of their lists in terms of chore-preferences, but this one ran so smoothly it eradicated the reasons they disliked it.

But the vacuum wasn't why Makoto hadn't heard him; after all, it was relatively quiet. It were the headphones covering his ears that caused him to miss Haruka's arrival.

Haruka opened his mouth to call out again rather than touching his shoulder or jumping in front of him, lest he startle him. But he abruptly shut up when Makoto started to sing along to his music.

His soft voice filled the room, bouncing off the walls and the notes immediately nestled themselves in a chamber of Haruka's heart. Ever since they were kids, Makoto had been the better singer between the two of them, but as he grew older and his voice matured, Makoto improved even more. His vocal range was pretty wide so he could effortlessly sing along to a variety of genres, be it mellow ballads or high-tempo rock songs. While Makoto's voice was already a treat to listen to when he talked, hearing him sing was a rare but very welcome massage to Haruka's eardrums.

To suit his voice, Makoto's taste in music was also very broad. He enjoyed almost anything, so sharing earbuds with him or passing him the aux cord in the car meant Haruka was in for a surprise. This time, he was singing along to an upbeat song by some foreign pop group that was often played on the radio and in stores. The lyrics described the sea breeze and silver sand on a summer night and although it was a bit out of season now they were well into autumn, Makoto's beautiful voice made it sound like a timeless serenade.

With bated breath, Haruka watched and listened. The sight of Makoto singing while vacuuming was rather mundane, something that could happen on any given day of the week, yet it made Haruka's chest brim with profound affection. He could travel the world, eat mackerel at Michelin-star restaurants, swim in every body of water within existence, and he still wouldn't be as happy as he was now. Trophies and the thrill of competing were a great bonus, but all that mattered was this; after work, he came home to the person he loved more than life itself, carefree and content.

When Makoto turned around the table to vacuum the floor on the other side, their eyes met and a wide smile lit up his handsome face. "Ah, Haru, I didn't hear you come in. Welcome home."

Naturally, Haruka smiled too. "I'm home," he said again.

After he turned off the vacuum, Makoto fished his phone out of his pocket to stop the music and put his headphones down on the table. Then, he went over to Haruka to engulf him in a big hug and welcome him home properly. As their lips met in a gentle kiss, Haruka realised he had been wrong; this was his favourite moment of the day.

He cupped Makoto's face, the faintest hint of stubble on his jaw prickling his fingertips and although it was a feeling he otherwise found unpleasant, the roughness was kind of nice now. It was a part of Makoto and since it would be gone tomorrow morning after he shaved, Haruka had to savour it now.

Makoto pulled back sooner than he would've liked, but Haruka wouldn't sweat it. There was more than enough time left in the day to dedicate to loving kisses.

"When you unload your bag, you can leave your towels and swimsuit in front of the washing machine instead of putting them in the laundry basket," Makoto said, "I'm doing laundry anyway so I'll put them in once this round is done."

"Vacuuming, doing laundry," Haruka said with a huff of amusement, "Are you aiming to be a house husband?"

"Depends." Makoto shrugged. "Are your applications open?"

"I guess."

"Then does that mean I'm hired?"

"Who else would I hire?"

Makoto chuckled. "Does that mean we're married now?"

A large question mark appeared above Haruka's head. Had he just proposed to Makoto? "Engaged, I think?" Haruka said with a frown. This was not how he expected this milestone to go down. He'd thought there would be at least more gasps of surprise, fireworks and perhaps even a tear or two. Not a joking remark on an extraordinarily normal day. "This is the most confusing proposal I've ever heard."

More melodic laughter streamed from Makoto's mouth. "It's not exactly how I had envisioned it either, but I must say I quite like it. It was so easy and natural, like everything else between us is, too," he said and he did have a point. "Besides, I'm happy with the upgrade. I was never a fan of the term 'boyfriends' anyway. 'Fiancés' has a much nicer ring to it, doesn't it?"

In Haruka's opinion, it did sound a lot better. Fiancé was more encompassing than the term boyfriend was, and while Makoto was undoubtedly his boyfriend, he was so much more than that. He was his best friend, his better half, his Makoto. "How did you think of me before if you don't like the word 'boyfriend' then?"

"My partner, my significant other, my best friend with a whole bunch of benefits," Makoto said with a playful raise of his eyebrows, but then he smiled, soft and genuine. "My Haru-chan."

It was the answer Haruka could've predicted, yet it still made heat rush to his cheeks. "Drop the '-chan'."

Makoto snorted. He raised his hand and carded his fingers through Haruka's black locks. "Hey, Haru?"

"What?"

"Do you think I'll be a good husband?"

"Your cooking skills can use some brushing up," Haruka said with a smirk, earning himself an offended 'hey!' from Makoto. "But other than that, you'll be the perfect husband."

"Thanks," Makoto said, leaning down to plant a kiss on the tip of Haruka's nose. "You will, too, but I already told you that, didn't I?"

Haruka nodded, smiling as he recalled it. "During our second year of high school, when I was teaching you how to cook mackerel in miso for Ran and Ren."

"Back then, you said you weren't interested in getting married."

It was true. When he was younger he had no intention to get married, but that was because it wasn't possible to marry Makoto and it wasn't like there was anyone else he wanted to be with. It was a great relief that over the years, it had become an option. "I changed my mind."

A warm twinkle shone in Makoto's eyes. "I'm glad. Although I'm happy enough just being with you, there's something extra special about our relationship being officially and legally recognised, don't you think?"

Haruka nodded. According to their friends, they'd been like an old married couple since they were kids so in that regard, nothing would change. But even if the nature of their bond didn't change, the way the world viewed them would. Whenever Haruka met someone new, it was difficult to explain what Makoto was to him: with the title of husband, all those problems would vanish and everyone would understand immediately that Makoto was his world.

"If we get married in a few years, we'll be able to save up for a ceremony on the beach, and maybe for a honeymoon in Okinawa," Makoto said and Haruka's heart swelled at the thought, "But for now, we'll enjoy the fiancé-stage of our relationship."

"Yeah," Haruka said. Their lives were a bit too hectic to get married right away, but that didn't mean they couldn't fantasise about it. They would have plenty of time to dream up the perfect wedding. "To celebrate our engagement, I'll cook a special dinner tonight. What would you like to eat?"

"Mackerel."

"Mackerel?" Haruka asked with a frown. "Not green curry?"

Makoto shook his head. "Mackerel is my fiancé's favourite food."

That made Haruka's stomach flutter. Could Makoto be any more kind and selfless? He was truly proving himself as husband-material. "I'll make a chocolate cake for dessert then. That's my fiancé's favourite pastry."

At the mention of chocolate cake, Makoto's smile softened. "Thanks, Haru," he said and pressed a sweet kiss to Haruka's lips. "There isn't anyone in the entire world who I'd rather spend my life with, so thank you for choosing to be with me again and again."

"Me neither," Haruka said, tightening his arms around Makoto's neck. Revealing the contents of his heart remained to be something he struggled with, but Makoto deserved to hear just how much he meant to him. No matter how difficult something was, for Makoto he'd always try his best. "I love you."

"I love you too," Makoto said as he leaned their foreheads together, their noses touching. "So, so much."

Their eyes fell shut as their lips met in another passionate kiss.

If every day with Makoto was this domestic and comfortable, then Haruka was already looking forward to all the years yet to come.

[poptod]

The Story of Golden Fish and Red Duck (Ahkmenrah x Reader, Ch. 1)

Description: Your family hates his family, and his family hates yours. It’s only natural you hate him - it’s in your blood... right?

Notes: Took the advice given to me and split this up into chapters. Sorry for the inconvenience. 

Word Count: 2.5k AO3 Link: The Story of Golden Fish and Red Duck

It was almost fortunate that the evening would commence in the way it did - that you and your family have to have dinner with your sworn enemy. Not that he was exactly your sworn enemy, no, it was mostly your father and the Pharaoh which, if anyone else knew of the existing rivalry between the two, could spell doom for both families. That was the exact reason they kept up a charade in front of the general populace, which created a facade of peace that was rather easily seen through. Several times you'd asked as to the reason or origin of the fight but each time, your father told you why it still existed, and why both families helped each other out while hating each other. You'd memorized the political gains that the Pharaoh gave, and in turn your father gave the Pharaoh; your family had money. A lot of it, and Pharaoh needed that money to remain both in power and to continue a peaceful, prosperous reign. In turn, to keep the status your family had, your father needed the Pharaoh to appoint him High Priest, thus the circle continued - your father funded the Pharaoh's various projects, the Pharaoh let him keep his status and job. It was probably a little hard to see why a dinner with a person you hated was a good thing, but your father loved showing off his riches and his 'beautiful children,' though neither you or your older siblings were very well-behaved usually.

It was one of the rare times both you and your siblings willingly behaved properly to the highest extent. Not because your father had a life-long feud with the Pharaoh, but because you and your siblings had a life-long feud with the Pharaoh's children. Maybe it was an inherited trait; maybe your families were destined to hate each other. Nonetheless, you had to look your best for the evening.

Servants came through the doors to your room, carrying various trinkets and cloths, pinning them perfectly against your body until you were a heavenly glow in your mirror. Red wasn't a commonly seen color, which was one of the reasons you were dressing yourself in it, gold string weaved into the flower patterns of the red shawl. It was nearly see-through, the sheer, soft fabric flowing from your shoulders to your waist. A skirt hung on your hips, dripping in an uneven pattern down to your feet, spinning easily when you did a turn.

"I still don't think the red was a good idea," your brother said, his arms crossed as he leaned on the frame of your door.

"I didn't ask your opinion. I asked for you to design it. That's your thing, isn't it?" You replied, quiet and thoughtful as you continued to admire yourself. A headband might go well with this, you thought to yourself, pushing your hair back from your face.

"But it's such a... garish color. Couldn't you go with something more common?"

"Again with that speech, I've heard it before," you said with a sigh, rolling your eyes. "Father tells me it almost every day."

It wasn't your fault - well, maybe it was - that your fashion sense didn't go with what was popular. You preferred darker colors, more vibrant and deathly than what was customary, something that'd go with your state of mind. Not that you were an especially depressing person, at least not more so than the average person, it was only that you weren't quite as into living as others. People were so interested in life, so interested in continuing it even past death, that no one had even spared a thought towards death being something different than life, which was exactly what you devoted your time to internally debating. There were several ideas that seemed likely, the first being that what followed death was exactly what everyone thought happened. The second was nothing - peace, nonexistence, the wiping of the conscious, which technically was already what people thought would happen to you if your heart weighed more than Ma'at's feather.

A few minutes later and your father called you downstairs, awkwardly complimenting you and your siblings. To your right stood Kesi, your sister, and beside her your brother, Teremun. You always stood on the end, the shortest and the youngest, and your name meaning ‘mouse’ certainly didn't help the teasing. Short might've meant beautiful, but your brother and sister found ways to taunt it, just as you and your sister could find ways to taunt Teremun, and you and Teremun could taunt Kesi.

"Did you have to go with red?" Your father asked you, sighing with worried eyes as he stood in front of you.

"Red is a nice color," you said in a small voice, not shrinking away but certainly not leaning in.

"... right. Whatever you want, little one. Eshe?" Your father called upon his wife, a bright smile crossing his face when she emerged from her dressing room in all white. "You look beautiful, dearest," he murmured in her ear as they embraced, hand in hand as he landed a kiss on her cheek. You look away from the affection, though you noticed your brother did nothing and your sister continued looking pointedly.

"I'm glad our parents have such a good relationship," she whispered to you, leaning closer so only you could hear.

"I'm sure you are."

A carriage awaited you outside, your parents filing in, followed clumsily by Teremun, Kesi, and then yourself. Once squished in, your father gave the go-ahead to move, and thus started the short ride to the palace.

Living near the palace had its' ups and downs, the positives being that there weren't any beggars and the streets were much cleaner, and the downsides being that the Pharaoh's family had a habit of being loud. Very loud. That night, however, the noise wasn't coming from just the family. Hordes of people stood at the gates of the palace, dancing and playing music on lyres and harps, the bold voices of hired singers belting in the spacious, white halls lined with paintings and carvings. Pillars bigger than your house kept the endless ceiling up, incense burning from hooks hanging off them. Smoke drifted up into the ceiling, intoxicating those standing in the room. Luckily for you and your familys' safety, there was a clear path that people created down the center of the hall. Out of the corner of your eye you could see several naked people doing a dance you couldn't identify, and by the time you had an idea of what it was, they were out of sight.

Your carriage continued down the massive hall till you came to the very back. The back of the hall was something special, something spectacular that you very rarely appreciated - you supposed you could appreciate it that night. Backlit by at least a dozen torches, a massive statue portraying the Pharaonic family sat in black stone, cast against the stark white of the alabaster hall. In front of it was the table you were to sit at, the real Pharaoh and his non-stone family already in their seats, smiling tight at the sight of Yafeu, your father.

"Good to see you, Yafeu," the Pharaoh said, barely smiling before his face returned to dour stone.

"You as well, sir," your father replied with a small bow, smiling at his tiny jab at the man. Yafeu was technically supposed to refer to him as My King, or something of that ilk, which always disgusted you - it was such an odd thing to call someone, if not incredibly personal.

You put away your own feelings on the subject, sitting beside the youngest child of the royal family with a curt smile. Khufu you didn't mind as much - he wasn't old enough to understand the anger, and he was a rather kind boy, sometimes even helpful. Beside him, however, sat your match, your personal opponent, the man you hated the most in the entire family. Just as your father was tied in with the Pharaoh, your elder brother was head to head with their eldest son, Kahmuh. Kesi, however angry she may have seemed to be against Khafra, actually had a little crush on him, which she told no one but you. Your feelings for Ahkmen, their third child, were entirely platonic hatred. He smirked at you, smug as he made a tiny wave in your direction. Glaring, you turned around, keeping him out of your sight.

"That's no way to greet an old friend," he said with a laugh, his smile only growing more pleased when you shot him a scathing scowl.

"Hardly, Gold fish," you retorted. Something about his face always threw you off; maybe he was too confident, or too flirty, but either way he didn't settle well with you. He showed off five too many times and ever since that point, you had always hated him. The nickname for him, 'Gold fish,' only came about due to the fact that he made his own nickname for you, one that only he called you, one that infuriated you. To others it might've seemed affectionate - Gold fish was a nice nickname, but not coming from your mouth. You spit it out, brow furrowed and arms crossed, white knuckles digging into the flesh of your arm.

"You'll come around, Ducky," he said, winking at you when you turned to gauge his expression.

"Can we please act civil for once?" You said, an almost pleading look on your face.

"For the ceremony," he agreed slowly, nodding as he turned towards the crowd at large. Your eyes followed his, and saw the dancing mob of people that had made their way into the palace.

"That's a lot of people," you mumbled, feeling very small and very large all at once.

"It's not more than there usually is," Khufu reminded you.

In the distant reaches of the hall, flames appeared, drifting in the dark and writhing mass. The crowd began to part, the center of the hall becoming clear even in the shadows the massive building cast. Down the middle came dancers, the beginnings of a procession you knew well - it was one of your duties, as part of a High Priests' family, to attend the Heb-Sed Festival, and it was a duty you found pleasant. Besides the bad company, the sight was a rare one, beautiful and strangely ethereal. Parades of exotic animals, fire and smoke made their way to stand before the Pharaoh, honoring him with the sight of complex performances. It was very much a self-satisfying party - funded by the Pharaoh, planned by the Pharaoh, and for the Pharaoh.

Gasps came from the commoners as blue fire erupted from a man's mouth, curling into the sky before dissipating in the great darkness of the ceiling. Your eyes widened in time with the Pharaoh's exclamation, watching the man bow as Ahkmen leaned forward, the opposite of your own reaction of leaning back.

"Would you stop that?" Your sister whispered to Kahmuh, pushing his arms away from herself. You motioned her distress to Teremun, the one sitting beside her, who quickly resolved the situation by switching seats with her.

"None of you have any sense of humor," Kahmuh grumbled bitterly, crossing his arms and slouching as the next group of performers came along.

"We most certainly do. You're just not funny," you snarked, surprisingly backed up by Ahkmen.

"I'm sure they'd find you hilarious... if you did anything worth their time," Ahkmen said quietly, not bothering to meet his brothers' enraged eye.

"That must be the first time you've said anything intelligent," you said to Ahkmen after the conversation with the other half of the table dissolved. "I'm almost impressed."

"And that's the first interesting thing you've ever said," he replied with that far-too-smug smirk of his, your eye subconsciously twitching in your own irritation at the boy.

"One of these days, I'm going to get you and it'll look like a bloody accident."

"Only if you kiss me," he said, trying a charming smile and leaning closer to you over the head of his younger brother.

"You wish, Goldie!"

The parade continued on seemingly endless, dances and performances coming one after the other in a line that went on for what could've been eternity. In the dark of the hall, distant and barely visible in the dim torchlight, you could see the end of it - a man standing atop a cage, and within, an alligator.

"They're nothing but trouble, you know. It never ends well when they're there," you could hear Kahmuh whisper, but too entranced in the performance to bother to look and see who he was talking to. You could easily assume it was his father, either way - Kahmuh despised talking to his other family members, even though his father hated when Kahmuh talked to him. It wasn't the most loving family, or the most accepting, which was one of the major reasons your father hated the Pharaoh; he wasn't at all open with the people he should've been the most loving towards. Your father, on the other hand, was very open about his feelings, which was something Kesi adored. Teremun and you didn't think much about it, but were grateful when it was brought up.

Before you knew it the parade ended, and servants came through, setting food on the various tables throughout the hall. The grandest, most intricate and expensive desserts and delights were set in front of the Pharaoh, who grinned in a too-satisfied expression at the showmanship of his jubilee. Rolling your eyes, you awaited your own food, which came a minute later with the rest of your family's dinner.

For the most part, the fighting seceded for the evening to make way for the party. Music took the place of snide remarks, dancing filling a silence that would've been taken by bitter responses. With full stomachs and happy faces, the evening might have even been enjoyable, had Kahmuh kept his hands to himself, but since he's Kahmuh, he obviously didn't.

Mid-song your sister Kesi stood up, shoving Kahmuh away from her. Your eyes darted to the commotion - Kahmuh had stood out of his seat, clearly bothering your sister till she broke, which was unfortunately a very poor decision on her part.

Yafeu, your father, jumped out of his seat, grabbing Kesi and putting his hand over her mouth. Several commoners were looking up at you, all of whom quickly looked away when they noticed you glaring at them.

"Get a handle on your children, Yafeu," the Pharaoh said, his teeth gritted as he glared up at your father.

"Get a handle on yours first and I wouldn't need to do a thing," he bit back, pulling Kesi to safety and sitting her down in his own seat. Murmurs rang through the crowd, and the settlement of noise called the two men to glance at their audience.

"I think it's best if you leave," the Pharaoh said quietly, almost under his breath. Yafeu quickly agreed, humming a quick 'come on,' when he passed Eshe and Teremun, grabbing your wrist as he walked past you. Tugged along forcefully, you barely noticed Ahkmen waving a pleasant good bye, allowing you to send one last searing glare.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Just Say the Word: Twelve

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.”

“Colin, breathe babe,” you laugh softly.

“Then slow down, fuck!”

The helmet might muffle his voice but nothing could muffle your laughter as you rev the engine and surge forward, weaving deftly in and out of cars like they’re standing still.

It’s like you’ve never stopped riding and it feels like flying, even with Colin clinging to your back like a monkey. “Colin,” you say, slowing down as the traffic thinned out, “Breathe. And open your eyes.”

“Oh my god,” he groaned, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

“If you puke in my helmet...”

He groaned again and rested his forehead against your shoulder. “We’re almost there,” you tell him.

The rest of the ride is quiet but for the engine of the bike and when you pull up to the lake, backing into the parking space, Colin loosens his grip. “Shit,” he groaned, “Is it always that scary?”

“Only if Nat’s Driving,” you answer helping him out of the helmet and kissing his cheek.

Colin reaches up and brushes windblown hair out of your eyes, taking a deep breath, “The Lake?”

“A lake,” you tell him nodding, “One the tourists haven’t found yet.”

“Ooo,” Colin says, “A secret? Are you gonna get in trouble with the town elders or something?”

“It’s not that deep,” you snort, “But, I thought we could use some sunshine.”

You unpack the basket of lunch you brought and a blanket, holding a hand out to Colin. He smiles and laces his fingers through yours. “I don’t get enough golfing?”

“You might if you golfed more than you hung out in the clubhouse networking,” you tease. 

“Fair,” he chuckled, laying out the blanket. 

For a moment, you stand on the sand and watch the gentle waves come to shore. The warm air smells of dogwood, cut grass, and water. And for a moment, you’re miles away. Almost a decade away. Because a day like this used to mean one thing and one thing only. It meant Adventures. It meant a barbecue and coolers of beer. A bonfire. And this little picnic wasn’t close to that but. Colin looked happy. Content lounging in the sun on a blanket. And you were reasonably certain that in his parents’ little world no one had ever thought picnics were proper. They were the kind of people who refused to eat anything with their hands. Pizza, Burgers, it didn’t matter. If it wasn’t something designed to eat with a knife and fork, they would eat it that way anyway. 

“Where’d you go?” Colin asked as you kneel down with the basket. There was no judgement, just... curiosity. 

“Just, remembering, I guess,” you answer. 

“Remembering what?” he asks.

“Nothing important,” you say smiling, kissing him as you set out fruit and some bread and cheese. 

Colin smiled and kissed your forehead, “You can talk about him, you know.”

“I know,” you say, “I just... I wouldn’t know where to start. How do I talk to my current fiance about the 12 year relationship I had with my childhood sweetheart that ended in rehab, a gun being held to my head, and an ENTIRE biker gang staging a coup against their leader to sneak me out of the state?”

Colin snorted, “Wherever you want, babe,” he said softly. “I know- I know that you can’t really be here and not run into him. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to pretend your past didn’t happen.”

“Sometimes I want to pretend it didn’t happen,” you say softly. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, opening a drink for you, “Really.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say smiling, “The dumpster fire my life here was isn’t your fault... and it wasn’t all bad. We had some really nice bonfires by this lake.”

“Bonfires?”

“Yeah,” you answer, looking out towards the water.

“I’ve never been to one,” Colin mused.

“Frowned upon at the country club, huh?”

“Oh. So much,” he chuckled, “You know mom. Food shouldn’t be served outdoors.”

“Can our housewarming party be a barbecue?”

“Yes,” he laughed, “Maybe we’ll even do a bonfire.”

“Ooo,” you muse, “I’d really like to watch her try and eat a s’more with a knife and fork.”

“You’re so evil,” he said shaking his head. “So. So. Evil. And so hot... I love it.”

“Enough to let me re paint the kitchen?”

“What, you don’t like eggshell?”

“I was thinking... yellow. I like yellow.”

Colin frowned and mock scowled at you, “And undo all the decorator’s hard work? What?”

“A white and black interior is HARDLY hard work,” you sigh, “It’s like 80′s futuristic and I hate it.”

Colin smiled indulgently and kissed your nose, “Whatever you want, babe... It’ll probably look better if you do it. And if we throw dinner parties it’ll look better for everyone to be able to be comfortable. And if the house looks less like a bachelor pad.”

“Bachelor pads are notoriously gross,” you add, nodding, taking a sip of your coke.

“I wouldn’t know,” he chuckled, “Mom always hired cleaners for me.”

You snort, “I know,” you tell him drily, “She thought I was your maid until she caught you grabbing my ass.”

“And now I understand why you’d rather get married in Vegas,” he said, shaking his head. 

[bluewatsons]

Ann Neumann, Family Care for All, 51 The Baffler (April 2020)

Supporting the work that makes all other work possible

© Danielle Chenette

Once the coronavirus pandemic began to shut down American businesses earlier this year, it wasn’t long before Congress passed a massive stimulus package to prop up major industries and extend loans to small businesses. By the end of March, well over ten million people filed for unemployment compensation. At the same time, entire segments of the labor force went untouched by emergency bailouts and social insurance. One of the largest such groups consists of domestic care laborers: home health care workers, disability aides, nannies, housekeepers, and cleaners.

They are the workers who scrub our toilets, fold our laundry, and care for our children and aging parents. They are often paid in cash and for the most part work without basic labor protections. There are, according to the National Domestic Workers Alliance, about two million of these workers in the United States, and even in “good” economic times, they struggle to support their families. (By comparison, there are more than three million farmworkers—another group mostly written out of the protections of labor law.) Many face ever-expanding job descriptions: nannies doing laundry and cleaning, home health aides picking up groceries for their patients. Some experience chronic discrimination or sexual assault; trafficking is a known problem. They have no sick leave, no job security, no health insurance. Now they face joblessness or else the risk of contagion if they continue to work during the pandemic.

Few organizations focus on the rights of these workers[*]. Many maids, nannies, and cleaners work for individual families instead of companies, so they are not in a position to join a union or bargain collectively for better wages and benefits.

Even before the pandemic, domestic workers subsisted in an economic system showing multiple stresses: a rapidly growing elder population; childcare that may be barely affordable for middle-class families, let alone for the workers who serve them; a bloated and byzantine health care industry that is inaccessible to at least thirty million Americans; immigration policies that penalize the very people who are holding our families and households together. Now we face a reckoning: some of the most invisible workers in America are, in fact, essential. If we are going to rebuild the economy, it will take more than corporate bailouts. It will require visionary changes to labor law—and social insurance—that recognize how important domestic care workers are to a functioning and humane society.

I Really Do Care, Don’t U?

Such a vision has been taking shape over the last thirteen years at the National Domestic Workers Alliance, which advocates for the rights of those who care for our homes and children and parents, striving to make domestic jobs into quality jobs, with the pay and protections necessary to support those who are getting a foothold on the economic ladder. With four local chapters, sixty affiliate organizations, and a presence in nineteen states, their movement is driven by the idea that our social and health challenges can be solved with innovative social policies that bring care workers out of the dark and make the care we need affordable.

I met with the NDWA’s director, Ai-jen Poo, in mid-February when the dire urgency of the coronavirus was still a few weeks away. We spotted each other in the lobby of a workspace in lower Manhattan and had a brief hug. Poo seemed unchanged since the time we first met as co-presenters at a New York University event about a decade ago. She is steady, direct, and in all likelihood one of the most informed persons in America about the real-life concerns of domestic workers, who she has been organizing for nearly two decades. In 2014 she won a MacArthur Genius Grant and used it to write a book, The Age of Dignity: Preparing for the Elder Boom in a Changing America, which came out a year before my own book on end-of-life care.

Poo and I talked about how the NDWA has grown, the challenges of advocacy in the Trump era, and a sweeping, practical solution to the care crisis in the United States—one that is even more compelling now that the old jerry-rigged system seems to be crumbling. For several years, she has been imagining such a plan: “Our solution is called Universal Family Care,” Poo tells me—a social insurance fund that we all contribute to but also benefit from, one that provides childcare, long-term care, and paid family leave. “It will totally revolutionize how we take care of each other,” she says. “It’s like putting a new infrastructure in place to support family life in the twenty-first century.”

Many Americans assume that Medicare covers long-term care, but it does not. So it’s frustratingly common for elders to arrive at the point of crisis without a plan. “It’s a tragedy,” Poo says. “Most people have nothing in place, and they end up spending down their resources, completely impoverishing themselves, to be eligible for Medicaid.” While Medicare covers health care for all older Americans, Medicaid was created for those in poverty—and it was never intended as a long-term care program.

By socializing the costs of care, a Universal Family Care fund would prove durable enough to even out the risks and expenses. Social insurance works best when you have a massive pool and, as Poo notes, “there’s no bigger pool than American families.”

The Caretaker Diaries

In my years as a hospice volunteer, I met many women who care for elders in their final days. Maria, with her long nails and quick laugh, was paid so little that she would often stay overnight in the abandoned nanny’s room at our patient’s house so she wouldn’t have to pay for transportation from the Upper West Side to Brooklyn. Maxi had chronic back pain from hoisting our patient out of a chair and out of the shower. Both were hired for a limited job—assisting the patient with daily activities—that over time began to include cooking, cleaning, and picking up groceries on their way to work. When our patient died, Maria and Maxi were out of work and grieving.

The cost of this kind of round-the-clock care is enormously expensive, even for elders who have savings and other resources, which presents the immediate challenge—absent the national fund envisioned by the NDWA—of providing caregivers with a living wage without bankrupting families.

This necessitates changing our culture to view domestic labor as deserving of all the protections and benefits other kinds of labor enjoy. “The cultural devaluing of domestic work is a reflection of a hierarchy of human value that defines everything in our world,” Poo once said in a TED Talk, “a hierarchy that values the lives and contributions of some groups of people over others, based on race, gender, class, immigration status—any number of categories.” When I ask her how this hierarchy specifically devalues care, she evokes the words of actor and caregiving advocate David Hyde Pierce, who opened his moderation of a panel at the White House a few years ago with the reminder that “to age is to live, and to care is to be human.”

It’s a truth that is nonetheless warped by prejudice, Poo says, by “hierarchies that value the lives and contributions of men over women, of white people over people of color.” Because domestic work and caregiving have for so long been associated with women, the work has been discredited, its importance denied or made invisible. “It’s seen as not having any real value in the economy or culture,” Poo notes. NDWA is hoping to change that by bringing these workers out of the dark as part of a concerted push for a federal Domestic Workers’ Bill of Rights that will codify the value of these essential laborers and grant them the necessary protections.

“We are bringing all the tools and all the creativity we have to do this work,” Poo told The New York Times Magazine last year. “We are in a moment where we can either shape the future and be part of how this whole thing unfolds, or we can be victims of it, the way that we have been for generations.”

In 2010, three years after the NDWA was founded, the organization and its affiliates celebrated the passage of the first Domestic Workers’ Bill of Rights in New York State. It provides protection under the New York State Human Rights Law, overtime pay after forty hours, and three paid days off per year. Through the efforts of the NDWA and other organizations like Hand in Hand, an association of domestic employers who advocate for sustainable jobs for the workers they employ, eight other states have signed similar legislation—as have the cities of Seattle and Philadelphia. With support from Senator Kamala Harris, Representative Pramila Jayapal, and others, the NDWA is now working to enshrine the protections of the Bill of Rights in federal law.

Poo sees this federal legislation as a foundation from which we can revolutionize the way care is provided in the United States. “Caregiving today is still seen as a personal burden or responsibility,” she tells me, “and if you can’t figure it out and you can’t afford it and you can’t manage it, it’s your personal failure.” Central to Poo’s work is remaking caregiving as a social challenge rather than a private shame; to articulate how vital care work is, she has called it the work that makes all other work possible. “This is a problem that the market can’t solve; this requires a collective solution, a public policy solution,” she says.

Alongside these efforts to enact policy at the state and federal level, the NDWA has launched several programs to directly improve domestic workers’ lives. They’ve set up an online service called Alia, for instance, that gives the existing clients of domestic workers a way to contribute to an affordable benefits program. For a mere five dollars per cleaning, Alia enables workers to purchase affordable insurance and access paid time off.

Priced Out

The Trump era presents a fresh challenge: the NDWA is advocating for a sector of the economy with one of the largest populations of undocumented workers during a time of mass incarceration at the border. But Poo doesn’t blanch when I ask her about advancing workers’ rights under an administration that seems hell bent on punishment and carnage. “Trump ran on building a wall and targeting immigrants,” Poo says, “blaming immigrants for the jobs crisis and crime. We knew it was going to be a very hard time for our workforce, and it has been.” But as she points out, the administration’s punitive efforts have only made the injustice more obvious and increased awareness of how border issues are connected to each of our personal lives.

At the start of the current border crisis, the NDWA helped launch Families Belong Together, a network of nearly two hundred fifty organizations working to end family separation and detention through direct action, organizing, and fundraising. Such endeavors are predicated on the interconnectedness of workers, caregivers, and families—and on building a movement that will meet everyone’s needs by making care affordable and making caregiving a sustainable job.

What’s innovative about the work Poo directs is how it orients a number of pressing issues—immigration, labor rights, the rights of women and women of color, health care quality—around the issue of domestic care. Caregiving is a core issue, not a private matter of the domestic sphere—and it is increasingly a source of crisis for families.

Exceptionally few Americans can actually afford the care that they need. So the challenge is two-fold: we have to help families pay for their care and we have to support the workforce with sustainable jobs that offer fair wages. The challenge continues to expand, but perhaps a window of opportunity is opening as well. “We have a once-in-several-generations chance to revolutionize how we support families and how we take care of the people we love,” Poo says.

One of Poo’s data points is that Baby Boomers are turning sixty-five at the rate of approximately ten thousand per day, and because they’re living longer, we will soon have the largest elder population in our country’s history. On top of that, millennial women gave birth to more than three million babies in 2018. “We need more care than ever before,” Poo notes, “and we have nothing in place, no infrastructure, no systems to support that care.” While women once provided all of the uncompensated care that elders and children needed, that hasn’t been our reality in decades.

Another factor in the care crisis is the general erosion of livable salaries; there’s no way people can afford the care they need. Nearly 40 percent of American households make less than $50,000 a year. Poo does the math for me: if the average cost of childcare is $11,000 a year and a private room in a nursing home costs more than $100,000, the numbers just don’t add up.

Fuller House

The first women who did this in-home care work as a profession in the United States were enslaved Africans. Since then, women of color, immigrant women, women of marginalized social status have been the workers in our homes, with our children, and with our elders. “And that is not an accident,” Poo notes. “In fact, it was codified into law in the 1930s.”

She’s referring to the New Deal. As Congress debated the labor laws embedded in this suite of progressive policies, Southern members refused to support any laws that included protections for domestic workers and farm workers, who were predominantly African American. Southern congressmen won out, and these two sectors were excluded. “It was an explicitly racial exclusion,” Poo says, “that has really shaped domestic work and care work in America. It’s a very concrete manifestation of the hierarchy of human value and how it gets codified into law.”

Yet what work is more fundamental to family life and social reproduction in this country? Care workers are in our homes, wiping the chins of our toddlers and parents. It is the fastest growing work force in the economy. And it’s the sector that supports every other working family. “If every domestic worker in New York decided not to go to work one day, imagine the chaos,” Poo says. “Even though that work is invisible, it is central to the operation of so many industries.”

What happens if caregivers don’t go to work one day is strikingly easy to imagine now, as New York State has decreed that all nonessential employees must work from home to prevent spread of the coronavirus. Social media reverberates with tales of mothers and fathers who are struggling with work, childcare, home schooling, and elder care all at once. And yet many caregivers continue to go to their jobs because their charges require assistance for everyday activities; the pandemic has rendered this work not only visible but “essential,” the linchpin in our social structure.

Today, domestic workers struggle to feed their own children, they suffer burn-out and experience physical and mental exhaustion, harassment and racism. And because their wages are so low, the care sector has often lost talented caregivers to better paying work like fast food or retail. But Poo sees yet another opportunity here. “There’s a tremendous amount of waste in our health care system right now,” she observes, “and a lot of it is concentrated at end of life.” I know this from my own work. As much as 25 percent of Medicare’s annual budget goes to the last year of life. Which wouldn’t be so bad if we were providing the kind of care elders needed.

“The very best prevention,” Poo tells me, “is good caregiving.” Workers who are well-paid and well-trained, workers we recognize and invest in, could be an asset to the health care system and a solution to many of its current problems—from unnecessary institutionalizations and re-hospitalizations to management of chronic illnesses and better quality of care.

The Road We’re On

You might think that the partisanship of the current political climate bodes ill for Poo and the NDWA’s vision for Universal Family Care, but caregiving is what Poo calls a “trans-partisan” issue. A recent poll conducted by Maria Shriver’s Women’s Alzheimer’s Movement and Caring Across Generations found that 71 percent of Republican voters would support a federal program to help cover the costs of caregiving. The poll focused mainly on long-term care, but support for a new government program is strong.

In March, in an op-ed for the New York Times, Poo wrote that “domestic workers and caregivers are too often asked to put the needs of the families who employ them over their own and those of their families.” Poo argues that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention “should direct more of their resources toward the front-line care professionals” who work in our homes and neighborhoods because they serve as our first bulwark against damages to public health. Providing these workers, predominantly women of color, with safety equipment, testing, and information in multiple languages should have been our first step in preventing the spread of coronavirus.

“What you’re doing, because it is so big, is imaginative, it’s a creative act,” I tell Poo at the end of our conversation. “How can we envision this better future?”

“For me, it’s not hard,” Poo says. “I want people to get excited about the idea of Universal Family Care, the idea that care for families is a part of the infrastructure of the twenty-first century—like roads and bridges and tunnels are now an expected expense because they enable everything else.”

[*] Correction: A previous version of this article incorrectly stated that the Service Employees International Union (SEIU) 1199 does not represent home health aides. This is not the case; the SEIU represents a large number of home health workers.