I initially thought it was cute that my future stepdaughter got up early to prepare extravagant breakfasts and tidy the house. However, everything changed when I learned the tragic cause of this seven-year-old’s fixation on being the ideal housewife.
At first, I became aware of it gradually. Amila, my future stepdaughter, would shuffle down the stairs before the sun came up, her tiny feet thumping gently on the carpet.
Even though she was only seven, she was there every morning, resolutely preparing scrambled eggs or pancake batter.
At first, I thought it was sweet. She was the epitome of a decent kid, while other children her age were still dreaming about unicorns or whatever other modern-day second graders fantasized about.
However, I became concerned after seeing that this was simply her habit.
My heart almost stopped the first time I saw her meticulously measuring coffee grinds into the filter.
Before dawn, four-foot-nothing was handling hot kitchen appliances while wearing rainbow pajamas and wearing her dark hair in pigtails. It was incorrect.
I murmured, “You’re up early again, sweetheart,” as I watched her pour hot coffee into cups.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air as the kitchen counter shone. “Have you cleaned this place?”
Her hungry, gap-toothed smile made my heart hurt as she grinned at me.
“I wanted you and Daddy to wake up to a pleasant scene. Is the coffee to your liking? I managed to operate the machine!
I found the pride in her voice strange.
Her tone seemed a bit too eager to please, even though most children like learning how to perform “adult” jobs.
My eyes swept the kitchen. Amila’s breakfast was spread out like a magazine spread, and everything was immaculate.
She had been awake for how long? While we slept, how many mornings had she spent honing this routine?
As I assisted her in getting off the stool, I remarked, “That’s very considerate of you, but you really don’t have to do all this.” “How about sleeping in tomorrow? I am capable of preparing breakfast.
Her dark pigtails bounced as she gave a strong shake of her head. “I enjoy doing it. Really!
I became alarmed by the urgency in her voice. When it comes to skipping chores, no child should seem that nervous.
Then Ryan wandered in, yawning and stretching. “Something has a wonderful scent!” He picked up a coffee mug and brushed Amila’s hair as he went by. “I’m grateful, princess. You’re becoming a pretty good housewife.
I glanced at him, but he was too preoccupied with looking at his phone to notice. Like something that has gone a little bad, the word “homemaker” weighed heavily on my chest.
As I saw Amila’s face brighten at his compliment, my uneasiness intensified.
We settled into a routine where Ryan accepted everything as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Amila played house while we slept, and I watched with increasing concern.
However, a child who was so motivated to finish tasks—especially ones they had embarked on alone—was not naturally inclined to do them. The dark circles under her eyes and the way she would wince when she dropped something, almost expecting retribution for her flaws, were not cute.
I made the decision to delve further one morning as we cleaned up after breakfast (I insisted on assisting, despite her complaints).
I couldn’t ignore the question any longer after it had been bothering me for weeks.
As she washed the table, I knelt next to her and said, “Sweetheart, you don’t have to get up so early to do all of this. You’re only a child! It is our responsibility to look after you, not the other way around.
Her tiny shoulders were stiff as she continued to scratch at an imaginary spot. “I simply want to ensure that everything is flawless.”
I paused at something in her voice.
Observing the slight trembling of her fingers, I carefully removed the cloth from her hands. “Be honest with me, Amila, honey. Why are you putting in so much effort? Are you attempting to win our admiration?
She was distracted by the hem of her shirt and refused to look into my eyes. Between us, the stillness weighed heavily on unsaid words.
At last, she muttered, “I overheard Daddy discussing my mother with Uncle Jack. He claimed that no one would ever love or marry a woman if she didn’t get up early, cook, and take care of all the household duties.
Her bottom lip quivered. “I’m scared… Daddy won’t love me as much if I don’t do those things.
The words struck me like a blow to the body. Something inside of me snapped as I gazed at this priceless child and saw her bear the burden of such poisoned expectations.
After years of advancements in women’s rights, my ostensibly progressive fiancé was blatantly upholding the same medieval nonsense that had prevented women from advancing for many centuries.
I whispered, “This is not happening.” “Not at my residence.”
The following morning, Operation Wake-Up Call got underway. After Ryan had his breakfast, which was prepared by his daughter, who is seven years old, I wheeled the lawnmower out of the garage with a smile.
“Will you be able to mow the lawn today?” I went into the kitchen and inquired. “Oh, and remember to trim the corners.”
Quite agreeable, he shrugged. “Yes, no issue.”
I heaped clean laundry on the table the following day.
The air was filled with the fresh smell of fabric softener. Can you fold these properly, please? How about cleaning the windows while you’re at it?
“All right.” He looked at me inquisitively. “Is there anything else?”
Suspicion was evident by the third day when I ordered him to tidy the garage and clean out the gutters. His brow furrowed, and he hesitated a little before each assignment, so I could see it.
“What’s happening?” he frowned. “I’m doing more chores than usual because of you.”
I forced all of my annoyance into a falsely bright smile. “Oh, nothing. All I’m doing is making sure you continue to be helpful to me. After all, I don’t see why I should marry you if you’re not doing your share.
The words came out precisely as planned. Ryan’s mouth was open as he gazed at me. “What? What exactly are you discussing?
I squared my shoulders and inhaled deeply. It felt like a turning point in our relationship, with everything depending on what happened next.
Your daughter gets up every morning to prepare breakfast and tidy the house, Ryan. She is seven years old. Seven. Are you aware of the reason?
He shrugged and shook his head.
I answered, “Because she overheard you telling Jack that her mother wasn’t deserving of love unless she got up early to cook and clean.”
She now thinks that your love for her is based on how much she does for you.
“I didn’t… He sputtered, “I mean, I didn’t mean it like that—” but I interrupted him.
“Intent is irrelevant. How much strain does that put on her, do you know? Ryan, she is neither a maid or a partner; she is a child. It’s not 1950 anymore, in case you missed it. She deserves to know that you owe her an apology and that your love is unconditional.
The ensuing hush was deafening.
I saw the understanding, embarrassment, and finally resolve pass over his face. It resembled the melting of ice.
Ryan knocked on Amila’s door that night, and I stayed in the hallway. As I listened, I hoped I hadn’t pushed myself too hard and prayed that this would help rather than hurt. My heart pounded against my ribs.
He said, “I need to talk to you, Amila, sweetheart.”
