I’m sitting here in the dark and the baby finally stopped screaming but my brain is still on fire. I’m so damn tired. I spent all night sketching those site plans between changing diapers and heating up formula (because God forbid my husband wakes up for once) and I dragged my ass into that meeting on three hours of sleep. I looked like hell. I felt like hell. But the design? The design was everything. It was the only part of me that wasn't covered in spit-up or resentment. It was the only thing I had left for myself. The senior partners were all there. The big dogs. The air in that room smelled like expensive cologne and pure arrogance. I had the CAD files ready. I had the physical model. My heart was thumping so hard I thought it would crack a rib. Miller starts the presentation and he doesn’t even look at me. He just clicks the first slide—MY slide, the one with the asymmetrical atrium that I stayed up until 4am perfecting—and he says, "So, I was thinking about the urban footprint..." I was thinking? I? He didn't think of a single damn thing. He didn't even know how the load-bearing columns worked until I explained it to him like he was a toddler yesterday morning. But there he is. Standing there in his $2,000 suit, leaning over the table, selling MY soul to the partners like he birthed the idea himself. He looked me right in the eye while he was describing the "intellectual rigor" of the facade—my facade—and I just... I stood there. I smiled. I nodded like a good little girl. I looked like a freaking bobblehead (completely pathetic). I just kept thinking about the mortgage and the daycare fees and how I can't afford to be "difficult." Why did I do it? Why didn't I say something? "Actually, Mr. Sterling, I developed that concept while I was nursing at 3am." Imagine that. Imagine the looks on their faces. But no. I’m the quiet one. I’m the one who keeps the peace at home so my mom doesn't have a breakdown and I’m the one who keeps the peace at work so I don't lose the only paycheck keeping us afloat. I am being EATEN ALIVE. I am a ghost in my own life. I design the walls and other people get to live inside them. I am a literal footnote in my own career. Miller patted me on the shoulder after they left. Said "Good job today, kid, we really nailed it." WE. Like we’re a team. Like he didn't just strip-mine my brain for parts. Now I'm back home, the house is quiet for five minutes, and I'm looking at my hands and they're shaking. I want to scream so loud the windows shatter but I can't because then the baby will wake up and the cycle starts all over again. I’m just... I’m done. I’m freaking invisible. I’m just the help. At work, at home, everywhere. Just a set of hands to do the work and a mouth that stays shut. I hate him. I hate this house. I hate that I just keep nodding.