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 thoughts 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 got a green card. That was it.

So, to Connecticut I went. My husband quit his job and we started to look for something new. Even though it was only for a month, I insisted on being added to the lease. The rental lady was charming. All I had to do was answer a couple of questions.

What do I do for work? Well, you see, I don’t work. I don’t have the right to. I’m not unemployed, I’m forbidden to seek employment — the distinction mattered to me.

She told me it was okay. My husband’s salary was enough. All I had to do was write that I was a homemaker.

It was my first time hearing the word that would come to define me.

I’m not a homemaker. I’m a housewife. To me, it’s really different. I understand that homemakers probably don’t enjoy being called housewives, and it’s fair. In my case, however, housewife is more than enough. I’m a wife that stays in the house. There couldn’t be a better word for me.

The world is changing, which is great. Genders are more fluid and partners’ roles are reexamined. A new word was needed in this new model. Housewife shouldn’t be a pejorative word, yet it too often is, and homemakers are still too often dismissed, disregarded, and judged for the choices they make.

A new extreme stands next to the old one: there are the people that still believe women should stay at home, especially with kids. And then you have the opposite, the people that will judge women for staying at home — even if it’s their choice.

Oh, you want to stay at home while your significant other makes the money? You’re lazy. You’re a gold digger. You’re a shame for feminists around the world.

Being a homemaker comes from the weight of many prejudices people have to carry around, or expectations they don’t live up to.

Well, I’m not a homemaker. Sure, I do the laundry because I like to do it my way, I do the dishes because it’s common courtesy, I take care of the dog, and once a week I sweep the floor. But mostly, I roam around the house, or spend my day behind my computer writing.

I live in a golden prison that people envy.

Yes, I love to stay at home while my husband is working and making money. I get to write online without being scared of paying rent. I play video games, watch enough Netflix to write mean reviews, walk in the backyard and observe deer eating the grass every night. I sure have it easy.

It’s great, the first month. After the 6th month, I am a lion in a cage, clenching to the bars, screaming freedom to whoever can hear me.

The thing is, no one can free me but myself. I’m free to leave the country anytime, but the US immigration was clear. If I leave, I don’t get to come back. When it comes to leaving the house, it’s more complicated. I don’t own a car, and I live a 2-hour hike from the nearest “city”.

I’m not a lion in a cage, I’m a bear. Much more realistic for New York.

After Connecticut, my husband got a job in the one place we said we would never live. His hometown Nowhere, NY. We moved in with his parents until we could find an apartment, but we never left. Our things are in boxes in the basement and every night we sleep in his childhood bedroom with a wall his mom made to his glory (his diplomas and certifications).

I’m grateful I don’t have to worry about money, rent, electricity, or heat. I’m grateful I have a roof above my head, and a bed to sleep in. I’m grateful that even though I don’t get along well with my in-laws, they let us stay and figure it out.

But a house is not a home, and I’m not a homemaker.

I’m just lonely, haunting someone’s basement and sitting by a window with the dog every night, waiting for my husband to come home.

What do you think of the word homemaker? A welcome change or a band-aid on a bullet wound?

Housewives and homemakers come in all shapes, forms, backgrounds, genders, and situations. For some, it’s an achievement, a purpose. Maybe even a dream come true.

For others, it’s a tough reality to face: I’m not what I thought I would be.

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