When “Helping” Turns Into Being Used
Here’s the thing about me: I’m meticulous about my home.
I bought this house myself before I married Victor — years of working full-time, freelancing on weekends, counting every dollar. Every wall, every piece of furniture, every plant has a story I paid for.
This house is the only place that feels like mine. The one space my body has never betrayed me.
Violet is the opposite of meticulous. She is pure chaos.
Within weeks of her moving in, my sanctuary looked like a storm had passed through:
- Clothes draped over chairs
- Half-empty glasses on side tables
- Damp towels abandoned in corners
- Dirty socks on the coffee table where I drink my morning tea
It didn’t just look messy. It felt like an invasion.
I tried to be gentle.
“Vi, can you try to be a bit more mindful?” I asked one morning. “I really need the house tidy right now. It helps me breathe. I’m still… recovering.”
She burst into tears immediately.
“I’m sorry, Ruby,” she sobbed. “I promise I’ll do better. I’m just so tired all the time.”
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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