The morning started like any other: me, in pajamas that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in a questionable amount of time, herding the kids to their respective corners of semi-controlled madness. The three dogs were barking at the UPS guy as though he were an ancient rival. The cats? Two were eyeing the fish tank with evil-intent and the third was perched on my keyboard. Naturally.
The world outside, meanwhile, had apparently lost its mind. Alien ships hovered ominously in the sky blotting out the sun, sending traffic into gridlock. News alerts screamed "probable invasion", but we ignored them. After all, the aliens tended to just fly-by with no incident frequently while mainstream media harassed the masses with invasion watches, severity/probability colors and warnings. Just another alert system to add alongside the 5% chance of rain notifications. But it was 9:55am, and I had a very important meeting for work at 10.
"Mom! She took my Lego!" "Did not!" "Mom! One of the dogs ate the remote again!" "Mom! I need glue for my project and I'm hungry." I pointed vaguely at the junk drawer while muting myself just in time for my boss to say, "Lets dive right in."
The dogs howled in agreement.
I shoved the cat off my keyboard and plastered on my corporate work face which oozed with "lets circle back on that" and "to piggyback off of what whatshisname said" written all over it. My camera wobbled like I was broadcasting LIVE from an earthquake.
"Is everything okay over there?" my boss asked, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, just a small...uh...technical glitch. Please continue." Then the doorbell rang.
"Mom! An alien or shapeshifter is here!" the kids screamed.
"No, it's probably just the neighbor and what did I say about labeling them if you are unsure of their exact nature? Just say Aliens or..."
BOOM!
The entire house shook. Through the window, I saw an oval ship descending onto our front yard. My internet held strong, but the Wi-Fi router blinked as if to threaten its stability, or maybe even it couldn't handle this level of nonsense.
"Mom, one of them is coming to the door!" my eldest yelled, looking way too excited. "Can I let them in?"
"No." I whisper-shouted, frantically typing, "Sorry, unstable internet connection" into the meetings chat while still trying to look professional on camera.
The alien at the door was surprisingly polite. Since the "Awakening" and their merging with us out in the open on the planet, they are a lot like Humans. Some are very sweet and charming while others are abrasive and ornery. Our dogs were of course losing their minds.
Meanwhile, the meeting carried on. I managed to unmute just in time to contribute, "I completely agree, strategic alignment is key," while simultaneously shoving two dogs into the laundry room to mask their festival of barks concert.
"Mom the alien says it just wants a cup of sugar." my eldest announced.
"A cup of WHAT?!" I shouted. I thought sugar harmed their skin or whatever the news said during a two-minute "Do's and Don'ts for Aliens" segment.
"Sugar."
Naturally, my Husband chose this exact moment to walk in, covered in dirt from some emergency home improvement DIY project. He took one look at the alien on the porch, sighed and grabbed the sugar jar. "I've got it," he muttered.
Because that's him. The guy who's going to save us all by baking cookies with extraterrestrials.
By the time the meeting ended, the invasion had been downgraded to "friendly neighborhood exchange program." on our block. The kids were eating translucent snacks, the cats were suspiciously quiet, and a dog was wearing what appeared to be a glowing collar.
And me? I finally got a moment to sip my cold coffee, now breathing with confidence as somehow, I had survived another work meeting.
He walked into the house smelling faintly of coffee and the stale air of long meetings. Our provider, our protector. The pillar that made this house a home, or so he likes to think. I watch him take off his work gear, oblivious to the weight of his presence and my stomach twisted with something between fondness and fury.
He had this way of sucking the oxygen out of the room without even trying, just by being so... him. Predictable. Practical. Dependable. Three words that devoured my free spirit, which had withered somewhere between his workaholic regime and his condescension about my "whimsical ideas."
"You spent how much on paint supplies?" he'd asked last week, his voice tight with disapproval like I'd committed a crime. How dare I act on impulse or passion or heaven help us all—joy. He doesn't understand joy the way I do. He sees it as a thing to be earned like a paycheck or a promotion. But to me, it's a spark, a breath of fresh air, something you seize before it melts away.
Still, I love him. It infuriates me how much I love him. His steady hands have held me through the worst nights of my life. His voice, calm and measured, had talked me down from countless ledges. And when he plays with our kids that tough exterior disappears revealing the man I'd fallen for before life hardened him into this rigid protector.
But tonight, as I watched him pour a glass of water, meticulously rinsing the glass afterward because God forbid a water spot tarnish our kitchen, I couldnt help but feel the simmering resentment rise again. He has clipped my wings, tethered me to this life of schedules and responsibilities with no outlet for me to be free and he didn't even realize it.
"Everything okay?" he asked, glancing up at me. His eyes searched mine.
"Fine." I lied. Because what was the point in saying it? That I hate how he made me feel small sometimes? That his practicality was suffocating? That I missed the version of me that laughed too loud and dreamed too big?
I loved him, but God, I loathed him too. And the worst part? I know he misses that version of me too; the wild carefree girl he'd tamed without even trying.
So I swallowed my distaste, along with the lump in my throat, kissed him on the cheek, and contemplated walking out of his life and starting fresh. But he's mine. The father of my children. My rock. The comfort that stifles my ambition...my weakness. My anchor.
