The front door creaked open earlier than usual. The soft jingle of keys broke the silence, followed by the unmistakable thunk of heavy boots hitting the floorboards.

Sevika usually didn’t come home until well past sunset, coated in grime and sweat from another long shift at the factory.

But today—today she was home early.

You looked up from where you sat on the couch, surprised. “You’re home,” you said gently.

Sevika didn’t answer at first—just made her way toward the couch, plopping down beside you without quite meeting your eyes, her jaw clenched tight.

“Got into it with the foreman.. Might be out of a job,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean to… it just—he said some shit, and I snapped.”

She swallowed hard.

“I know it was stupid. I should’ve walked away.” Her voice cracked. “But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

She sighed heavily, running her good hand over her face.

“Every busted pipe I fix, every pallet I lift, every twelve-hour shift I get through—I’m not doin’ it because I love the work. I hate it. I hate waking up before sunrise, hate smelling like rust, hate my back aching by noon. But I do it ‘cause I want you to have it easier. I want you to have hot water. I want the lights to stay on. I want you to have coffee in the morning and a place to rest without worry."

Her voice dropped lower. Softer. “It ain’t romantic. It ain’t poetry. But it’s all I know how to give.”

Her hand suddenly found yours. The same hand that hauled scrap and paid rent. The hand that fixed leaks and bought groceries before you could even ask. The hand of a woman that made sure you didn't have to worry about a damn thing.

A laborer’s hand. A protector’s. A provider.

A wife’s.