When Elizabeth’s husband hires a maid to help with the house, she’s touched by his sudden thoughtfulness.

When I got promoted, I cried in the breakroom. Not because I was emotional, but because I was exhausted.

Years of overtime, missed birthdays, quiet sacrifices, finally, someone saw me. I texted Greg, my husband.

“I did it.”

He replied with confetti emojis and said that he’d be ready with a bottle of wine and dinner when I got home.

Success was sweet, of course, but it came with a sour aftertaste. Longer hours, late dinners, and laundry that never folded itself. I stopped wearing mascara because I couldn’t be bothered to scrub it off at night. I stopped taking lunch breaks and would eat at my desk while still typing away

My inbox never slept, and neither did I.

One Tuesday evening, as I reheated my third takeout meal for the week, Greg looked up from the kitchen island.

“You’re doing too much, Lizzie,” he said. “Let’s get a maid. We need someone who can… help out.”

“A what?” I blinked at him, still holding my fork while the microwave brought the Indian leftovers back to life.

“A maid, a helper. My mom’s friend’s daughter is looking for a job. She’s young, polite. I thought… why not?”

Now, Greg came from a long line of “a woman’s place is in the home” men. Once, just before we headed out to dinner, Greg was busy changing while I vacuumed, fully dressed.

“You make it look good, babe,” he said, pointing to my heels. “Wow.”

Since then, he’d been trying to change… He’d been helping out more.

So this? This offer? It almost knocked me over.

“You shouldn’t have to come home from work and clean, Lizzie,” he nodded. “I can do the easy things when I get in… but the construction site’s been gruelling lately, my back is constantly sore. We need someone to take care of the deeper cleaning and all the laundry.”

I was so grateful to hear him say this that I almost cried.

“I’ll take care of everything, my love,” he said. “Just… say yes.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Let’s do it.”

Maria started the following Monday. I barely saw her. She came home during my work hours and left polite sticky notes on the fridge.

“Washed the bedding!”

“Scrubbed the oven. Have marinated chicken for dinner. Just throw it in.”

“Hope your big conference went well!”

It was like a ghost that left everything better than it found it.

For the first time in months, I exhaled. The house smelled like lemon, my clothes magically reappeared in drawers, perfectly ironed. The house stayed clean and fresh.

It felt like we were finally getting a rhythm back.

And then I started sleepwalking again.

It had been years since I’d experienced that pesky problem, since high school, really. But one morning, I woke up with bruises on my shins and my robe tangled in the hallway.

“Stress can trigger old habits, Elizabeth,” my doctor said. “That’s what’s happening right now. You mentioned a new promotion at work? I’m sure that’s come with its fair share of issues.”