A Homemaker? No, I’m a Housewife.
A house is not a home, and I’m not a homemaker.
This is a title I never thought I would write, nor a story I thought could be mine. Me, a housewife? It’s easier to picture myself living in some distant country than as a stay at home loving caring wife.
Yet, here I am.
The first time I heard the word homemaker, I was filling out a lease agreement, freshly out of a plane and through the borders of the United States. It was the beginning of June in an already Covid world, and I had finally been granted my visa.
My (now) husband lived in Connecticut. He took a job and rented a large apartment at the beginning of the pandemic when we thought it would be temporary. I was in France, one day before my final interview at the US embassy when former President Trump closed the borders.
We didn’t see each other for 16 months — up until President Biden opened the borders to people like me. A handful of visas, and I was first on the embassy list. As they signed my entry papers, they told me I was allowed to enter but couldn’t leave the country until I was awarded a green card. And that was it.
So, to Connecticut I went. My husband quit his job — something he had been itching to do for a long while — and we started to look for something new…
