At 42, I was swamped. My son, Noah, wanted a mohawk, while my twin girls begged, “No veggies, more TV!” My juice was warm, and a work pitch, my key to a promotion, sat undone. A wobbly chair and kids’ fights buried me. My husband, Chris, was “working” a pro bono project, his latest career leap. “It’ll turn around, Laura,” he’d say. Our clashes over trash and taxes dimmed our joy. When the front step cracked, I glued it, feeling like I’d let everyone down.
One evening, Chris said, “What if Mom stays here?” I sighed, “Nancy, who said my bread was ‘cardboard’?” But I agreed, “Just briefly.” Nancy arrived, eyeing my messy ponytail, “You look tired, Laura. Try concealer.” She spoiled Chris and the kids, cooking a stellar stew. I almost trusted her—until I heard giggles. In the lounge, Chris sat, a towel around him, as a brunette trimmed his hair. Two women entered: a redhead with folded sheets and a blonde with a storybook. “Who’re they?” I demanded, shocked.
“Nancy’s old students,” Chris said. “Their flat’s being fixed, so they’re here.” Nancy, holding cocoa, said, “Did I forget? They’re helping, temporarily.” I snapped, “Without my say?” She cooed, “You’re stressed, dear.” The redhead, Sophie, said, “Beds are made!” The blonde, Emma, added, “The girls love stories.” The brunette, Lila, finished Chris’s hair. Nancy whispered, “Chris needs a lively wife, not a drained one.” I smiled, plotting. Next day, I took a sick day, and three buddies arrived: Ryan, a mason; Eli, an electrician; and Cole, a landscaper.
“Helpers!” I cheered as Nancy froze. Ryan fixed walls, Eli rewired lights, and Cole cleared weeds, all joking with me. Chris asked, “Who’re they?” I said, “Support, since you’re swamped.” The women pouted, and Nancy fumed, “This is absurd!” I smirked, “Like your dating game?” At lunch, Cole said, “Laura, you’re still a spark.” Chris stood, “No more!” I flashed Nancy’s laptop, open to a “Chris’s New Wives” list, naming Sophie, Emma, and Lila. Chris gasped, “Mom, really?” Nancy muttered, “A backup.” They left—Nancy coldly, the women sheepishly.
Chris sat beside me, “I’m sorry for Mom’s mess. You’re everything.” I said, “I got the promotion.” He hugged me, and the calm felt like a prize. I’d won my home with wit. Share this story—it might encourage someone to outshine a plotter.
