What is a housewife?
I am a housewife, and I am pretty sure that millions of women like me are housewives. Once a man asked me a question — being a housewife is easy, right?
Oh, darling, being a housewife? It's a demolition derby with me as the unwilling driver and two pint-sized demolition experts named —Timmy and Max, my two adorable sons. Yes, and I am not joking. They are really adorable.
Duties start at 6 a.m. with the breakfast battlefield. Timmy wants dinosaur eggs—scrambled with green food dye, Max demands 'superhero toast' slathered in peanut butter armour.
I juggle spatulas like a circus freak, but one pancake goes rogue, sticking to the ceiling like modern art—like always before falling down back on the pan.
Laundry duty? My washer's in witness protection from sock genocide. Two boys mean eight feet firing grimy missiles—mud-caked jerseys from backyard "ninja-slash-samurai wars," Max's undies with suspicious skid marks. I sort loads while dodging Timmy's "sword fights" with hangers. The dryer buzzes apocalypse-now, spitting out shrunken clothes that will fit a cat better than my giants. Folding? Forget it; the boys turn the basket into a fort, burying me alive in tighty-whities, which is very disgusting by the way.
Cleaning's a joke scripted by gremlins, and I am sure of it. The floor's a Hot Wheels demolition zone—one step and I'm cursing in tongues, impaled by a rogue race car. Vacuuming unearths contraband: Timmy's half-eaten hotdog fossilizing under the couch, causing the whole room to smell bad. Max's Lego "explosives" rigged in the vents. They "help" by wrestling dust bunnies into submission, which means yogurt finger-paint on the fridge. Scrub it, repeat it, and pray for divine intervention. Yet, the intervention never comes.
School shuttle duty turns me into Mad Max: Fury Road 'Mom.' "Shoes! Homework! No, not that backpack with the frog in it! Take the other one!" Traffic's a boy-racer convention; I'm late because Timmy arm-wrestled Max over a fake shotgun. Drop-off survival: high-fives and peel-outs. Grocery duty next—cart demolition derby. Timmy loads exploding candy, Max grabs capes and whoopee cushions. Checkout? Card declines mid-meltdown, cashier lectures on screen time while my sons reenact wrestling moves.
Afternoons always start with a snack referee, craft chaos coordinator, brotherly brawl umpire. "He ate my booger sculpture!" "He farted on my comic!" Could someone tell me who the fuck eats a booger sculpture?! I, for one, don't!
Dinner's gladiator games—spaghetti lassos, meatball grenades, drumstick fighting, gravy splashing. Bedtime odyssey: stories of farting superheroes, bribes of glow sticks. Collapse amid toy carnage, only for midnight raids: "Mom, I need milk... and a wrestling rematch." "Mom, I am scared!"
Fuck!
Being a housewife is difficult, but being a mother? It's a herculean task with no rewards—not that I want any, but still... I deserve better.
Well, I was a spy before all this. What is a spy? No one asked me this question before. But I wanted someone to ask me this question. So, let me think that an imaginary person is asking me this question. Now, how will I answer it?
I am a spy... er, was a spy. A 'spy' is... someone who's a disguiser, a cheater, and a person who does missions. Back in the day, I infiltrated enemy compounds in stilettos, swapped identities faster than underwear, did missions in a record time, and dodged lasers with a martini in hand. Now? My missions are undies arrangement and Lego defusals. Timmy's the double-agent wildcard, hiding contraband in sock drawers; Max is my gadget guy, rigging booby traps with slime. Bedtime's the ultimate extraction—whispered lullabies laced with bribes, vanishing into the night... I mean, collapsing on the couch.
My eight-year-old sons, who are twins, have made my life hell after I gave birth to them. You all must be wondering how I ended up like this.
I was a very successful spy—done a lot of successful missions without any fail. But every good thing comes to an end someday, right?
It all started on a routine assassination mission. Everything should have gone smoothly—should've been in-and-out smooth as silk like always, but nope—my butterfingers hit the Facetruth app mid-stalk. Fake account, sure, but there I was, livestreaming the kill like a deranged influencer. Face fully masked in my balaclava, thank god, because the comments were already roasting: Bro, is this a comedic scene or a crime scene? Because the actress is really bad in acting.
My superiors thought that I was no longer suitable for doing missions. They were already angry with my quirks which gave them a perfect opportunity to kick me out of the only thing that I was good at.
After becoming jobless, I was married off to a wealthy man, who had a handsome face. He didn't like me that much—telling me to stay at home, and to act like a housewife.
So, I became your classic happy housewife—whipping up dinners, becoming pregnant, giving birth to kids, having dinner with friends and family, and dodging PTA drama. As a 'perfect' spy, I was also a perfect housewife.
After a few years of my happy marriage, I discovered my 'dear' husband was cheating. I was devastated at first, but I buried the pain and played the perfect housewife—smiling through dinners, folding his shirts just so, whispering sweet nothings while plotting in the shadows.
I'd been a spy once, seducing countless targets-slash-men in smoke-filled safehouses and luxury penthouses. Those were missions, disposable dalliances. But this? His betrayal cut deeper, a personal wound festering under my flawless facade. I mean, I am a stunning beauty but he cheated on me? I was faithful, but he wasn't.
Hmmm... revenge simmered as it should. Simple, poetic, pleasurable—I slept with a few men, who were more adventurous than him. They satisfied me, which he could never.
He called himself a businessman, all tailored suits and vague mergers. But I didn't buy it. No legitimate mogul had those Syndicate tattoos peeking from his cuffs or the coded burner phones he thought I didn't notice. For a spy, it triggered alarms. But I wasn't a spy anymore—so, I ignored it.
I collapsed into the armchair, sighing in pure relief, and some amount of joy. Thank God, those little rascals—my twin hellions—had finally crashed—a mother's worries are only her children. The house fell silent for the first time in hours, broken only by the tick of clock and my pounding heart. This is the peace that my soul craves.
Then, the doorbell shattered this peace. Argh! Fuck it! Who the hell disturbs a weary mom at this late hour? Grumbling, I dragged myself up, flipping on the porch light as I shuffled to the door. I peeped through the peephole, and saw a uniformed officer, badge glinting under the bulb.
I cracked the door, chain still latched. "Can I help you?"
"Are you Mrs. Jennifer Holman?" His voice was flat, official—too rehearsed.
I nodded warily, pulse quickening. "Yes, that's me. What's this about?"
He cleared his throat, eyes avoiding mine. "Ma'am, I'm afraid I have bad news. Your husband died in a golfing accident tonight. Hit by a stray ball—massive head trauma. We're notifying next of kin."
The words hung like smoke. Golfing accident? My lying bastard of a "businessman" hadn't touched a club in years; his idea of leisure was late-night "meetings" with mistresses or whatever shadows he danced in. A spy's instincts screamed setup—did someone kill him for revenge? Or one of my flings tying off loose ends?
I unlatched the chain, forcing a widow's gasp. "Oh God, no... come in, please. Tell me everything." Tears streamed down my face as I buried my face into my hands.