Invisible

I move through the day like a ghost in my own life. Present, but not truly seen. Necessary, but never appreciated.

It starts every morning before the world stirs. The air in the room is still, heavy with the silence between us. I wake up first, always. Not because I want to but because I have to. I check for his breathing. Not with love, not with concern, but with a strange mix of resentment and disbelief. Still here. Still sleeping peacefully while I carry the weight of all our lives on my back.

He doesn’t see me. Not the real me. Not the woman who sacrifices sleep and peace and time and energy just to keep the house, the kids, the future… from falling apart. He sees convenience. A warm body. A maid. A placeholder. But not me.

It’s maddening.

Every time I speak, it’s like my words fall into a bottomless pit. I say what I need, how I feel, what’s missing and it’s like I’m talking to a wall. No change. No effort. Not even acknowledgment. Just that same blank, bored stare or that silence that cuts deeper than any insult ever could.

I try to remind myself of who I am. Of what I’m trying to build. The ice cream truck isn’t just a job. It’s a lifeline. My grind. My freedom plan. I stock it, clean it, run it—while he stays in bed, unbothered, unapologetic. My kids come with me, working the window, passing out joy in cones and cups while I keep one eye on traffic and the other on the future.

I hustle. I study for Norfolk State in stolen minutes—on breaks, between stops, at night when everyone else is asleep and I’m dead on my feet. I'm trying to turn this heavy, lonely life into something that means something. Something that won’t leave my kids empty the way I feel most days.

But some days… like today… I just feel fed up.

Fed up with being invisible. With giving and giving while he takes and takes. With waking up sad and going to bed exhausted. With being the backbone while he drifts through life like none of this matters.

I don’t know what hurts more the disrespect or the indifference. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s that no matter how much I do, no matter how loud my silence or how clear my cries, I’m still unseen. Still unheard.

I don’t want to be here ten years from now, still mourning a life that never became mine. Still fighting to be noticed in a place where love was supposed to live.

One day soon, I’m going to leave this chapter behind. Not because I’m weak, but because I finally remembered I matter too.

No Room to Fall

The sun starts to dip low by the time we’re packing up the truck. Another long day of melting heat, sticky fingers, and quick change from the cashbox. The kids are quiet in the back, worn out from the rush, their laughter dulled by the weight of the day.

I hand them what’s left leftover hot dogs wrapped in foil, lukewarm sausages, half-melted candy bars sticking to the plastic, and whatever juice didn’t sell. It’s not perfect, but it’s what we’ve got. They eat without complaining, without asking for more, used to making do just like I am. It breaks my heart every time.

This ain’t luxury. This is survival.

I don’t sit. I don’t rest. I don’t even breathe right until the truck is locked down and I’m behind the wheel again, racing the clock.

I drop the kids off at home, giving out orders with the urgency of someone trying to outrun time “Homework. Wash your hands. No stove. I’ll be back late.” I trust them because I have to. Because I’m running on borrowed hours and a dream I refuse to let die.

I swing down 35th Street, the city blurring around me. These Norfolk streets are familiar tired sidewalks, boarded-up windows, corner kids chasing distraction. The same streets I’ve worked, cried on, fought through. But I won’t die here. I won’t let them.

I park crooked in front of the house, rush in, change my shirt, splash water on my face, grab my books and I’m back out the door in under ten minutes. There’s no pause. No peace. Just motion.

Because failure is not an option.

I don’t have the luxury of falling apart. There’s no one to pick up the pieces but me. No partner. No cushion. Just these babies counting on me, this truck that barely holds together, and the fire inside me that won’t let me quit.

By the time I make it to campus, I’m exhausted but present. I slide into class with minutes to spare, sweat clinging to the back of my neck, body sore from the day. But my mind is alert, sharp, hungry.

I open my notebook. I listen. I write. I absorb every word like it’s gospel because for me, this isn’t just education. This is escape. This is freedom. This is the answer to every “you can’t” I’ve ever heard.

One day, I’ll make it. And when I do, I’ll look back at this chapter and know I didn’t survive it. I owned it.

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