“Quietly? I could hear your wailing from the hallway. The neighbors probably heard it too. It’s embarrassing, Anna.”
“I… I used to study this.”
“Used to. How long are you going to go on about that? You never even finished. And anyway, you never really had a voice. Your professors were just being nice to you.”
It was like a slap in the face. I stood in the middle of the room, unable to say a word. He went on.
“Stop clinging to these childish dreams. You’re a mother and a wife. Start doing your duties properly instead of pretending you’re some kind of artist.”
From that day on, I didn’t sing. I was afraid to. Every time I wanted to hum a tune, I’d imagine Greg calling it wailing, and the sound would get stuck in my throat. Sharon started visiting more often, inspecting my housekeeping. She’d look inside my cabinets, run a finger along the shelves, searching for dust, and criticize my cooking.
“The soup is a bit thin. You should have added more potatoes. My Greg always used to eat up everything I made.”
“I cook the way I know how.”
“Exactly. You don’t know how. It’s a good thing I can come over and teach you. Otherwise, my son would starve.”
She compared me to the wives of Greg’s colleagues. They were well-groomed, slim, successful. They worked, raised children, and still looked like they’d stepped out of a magazine. And I was just a frumpy housewife in an old robe with unwashed hair.
“You know Jessica, the wife of Greg’s boss?” my mother-in-law would say. “She has two kids, works as a lawyer, and always looks like a million bucks. And you? One child, and you can’t even cope.”
I tried. I really did. I’d get up at six in the morning to get everything done. I cleaned, cooked, did laundry, ironed. But the exhaustion built up, and I became grayer and more invisible. The mirror showed me a stranger with dead eyes. When Leo turned four, Greg announced he’d found a job for me.
“A janitor position just opened up in our office building. You’ll work in the mornings, be done by lunch, and you’ll have time to pick Leo up from preschool. The pay isn’t great, but at least you’ll have some money of your own.”
“A janitor?” I asked.
“What’s wrong with that? It’s a decent job. Physical labor is good for you, and the company will give me a discount on our office cleaning fees. It’s a win-win for me.”
I didn’t argue. We really needed the money. Leo was growing, needing more clothes, toys, and activities. So I started working as a janitor in the office building where my husband worked. It was a special kind of humiliation. Greg’s colleagues would greet me with reserved politeness, the way you greet service staff. He himself pretended he barely knew me.
“Oh yeah, that’s our Anna. Does a great job on the floors,” he’d toss out casually if someone asked.
I mopped the floors of the conference rooms where he held meetings. I dusted the desks where his colleagues sat. I heard them discussing their weekends, their vacations, the restaurants they’d been to. And then I’d go home, pick Leo up from preschool, cook dinner, put my son to bed, and collapse from exhaustion. The mirror was no longer my friend. I’d look at my reflection and not recognize myself. I was thirty, but looked forty. Dark circles under my eyes. A stoop from constant fatigue. Cheap clothes from discount stores I bought on clearance. I hadn’t had a real haircut in years. There was no money or time for a salon. I just pulled my hair back into a bun. One evening after Leo was asleep, I was sitting in the kitchen flipping through an old photo album. There I was on the conservatory stage in a concert gown, singing with my eyes closed, glowing with happiness. There I was with my friends after a rehearsal, laughing. There I was with Greg at the beginning of our relationship. Young. Beautiful. In love. Who was that girl? Where did she go?
“What are you staring at the album for?” Greg asked, coming into the kitchen for a glass of water.
“Reminiscing about the past. Just looking.”
“You were at least pretty back then. Now you’re just a frump.”
He said it casually, as a statement of fact, and went back to the living room. I sat there holding the album and felt something inside me finally break. A week before the holidays, Greg announced that his company was having a corporate party.
“It’s an important event. Partners, investors are invited. The CEO asked everyone to bring their families to show we’re a solid team.”
“So I’m going too?” I asked, surprised. He usually went to these things alone.
Greg gave me a once-over and grimaced.
“Looking like that? Anna, look at yourself. Don’t even think about it. I’d be embarrassed to be seen with a frump like you. I’ll tell the boss you’re sick.”
A frump. He called me a frump. Not as a joke, not in the heat of an argument, but calmly, matter-of-factly, as if just calling a thing by its name. I said nothing. I just nodded and turned away so he wouldn’t see my eyes. But when Greg left, I opened the album again, looked at that girl in the concert gown, and for the first time in years, I felt not sorrow, but rage. No. Enough. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do. I had no clear plan. But something inside me, some forgotten remnant of pride, suddenly woke up and whispered, You are not a frump. You’ve just forgotten who you are. The next day, I started to act, secretly. I had no money, but I had a pair of old gold earrings my late grandmother had given me. I took them to a pawn shop and got five hundred dollars. It would have to be enough. I booked an appointment at a beauty salon for the evening of the thirty-first. Hair stylist. Makeup artist. Manicure. The full package. The receptionist looked at me doubtfully when I gave her the date.
“The evening of the thirty-first? Ma’am, you realize that’s our busiest day. Everyone wants to look good for the holiday.”
“I understand, but I need it to be in the evening. I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
She quoted me a price. Three hundred fifty dollars for everything. I agreed without haggling. I spent the remaining hundred fifty on a dress. I found a dark evening gown in a high-end consignment shop, nearly new. Someone had bought it, worn it once, and sold it. It was my size. It fit perfectly, form-fitting but not provocative, modest but elegant. Sharon agreed to watch Leo on New Year’s Eve, though she grumbled.
“What’s the point of you going?” Greg said. “It’s for important people. You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”
“But fine, I’ll watch my grandson if I have to.”
I didn’t explain anything. I just nodded. On the evening of the thirty-first, I went to the salon. The hairstylist was a young woman with bright lipstick and a tired look.
“What are we doing today?” she asked, examining my lifeless hair.
“I want to look different. Beautiful.”
She smiled.
“A good request. Let’s see what we can do.”
