I held her. I swallowed my irritation. But promises made through sobs dissolve fast — and the chaos came right back.
Then, it shifted from mess… to expectations.
“You don’t mind doing my laundry, right?” she said one day, dropping a basket in the hallway like it was already decided. “I’m just so exhausted, Rubes.”
“And can you make lemon chicken tonight? With broccoli? Extra creamy. It’s what the baby wants.”
At first, I gave in. Because guilt is a language women learn early. But with every basket, every demand, every dirty plate left for me, something ugly started growing inside me.
I was working full-time from home, keeping the house running between meetings and deadlines, grieving a dead baby — and somehow I had become the full-service maid for a girl who treated “I’m pregnant” as an all-access pass to my time, my fridge, and my sanity.
One night, wrist-deep in soapy water, scrubbing three separate plates she’d abandoned in different rooms, something inside me snapped.
When Victor came home, I didn’t wait.
“She’s taking advantage of me,” I told him. “I can’t keep doing everything for her. She expects me to jump every time she calls.”
He sighed, leaning against the hallway table, already in defense mode.
“Ruby, she’s pregnant. She’s going through a lot. Maybe helping her will make you feel better,” he said. “Taking care of someone who’s carrying a child… it might help with your grief. Channel everything you have into Violet and her baby.”
“Make me feel better?” I asked, stunned. “I just buried our baby, Victor. And you think folding Violet’s laundry is therapy?”
He looked away.
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