The hum of the warehouse was constant, filled with the low whirr of machines and the clang of tools. My hands moved over the list, eyes scanning the numbers as I counted pumps, compressors, and other equipment for maintenance. Air conditioners lined one row, refrigerators another, televisions stacked neatly in their boxes. Inventory was tiring, repetitive, but it was honest work.
"Hey, Noira," came a familiar voice behind me.
I turned to see Sir Thirdy—or Brother, as he insisted I call him—leaning against a crate, a grin tugging at his lips.
"Brother," I greeted, brushing sweat from my forehead. "Shouldn't you be checking the other section?"
He shrugged. "Already done. You're too serious. Take a break."
I laughed softly. "If I stop, I'll lose count, and then you'll scold me."
"I never scold," he said with mock offense. "I just… guide."
I rolled my eyes, but his presence lightened the mood. He was older than me by a few years, steady, responsible, yet there was a quiet sadness in his eyes whenever the topic of family came up.
"Do you have a girlfriend, Brother?" I teased one afternoon as we tallied boxes.
He chuckled, scratching his head. "No. My younger brother already married, but me? Nothing. I guess being the breadwinner doesn't leave much space for romance."
I paused, considering his words. "That must feel heavy. Always giving, never keeping anything for yourself."
He shrugged again, a quiet smile on his lips. "That's life. But hey, at least there's music."
"Music?"
"Yeah." He pulled out his phone and played a song—Borns first, then Hozier. The haunting voices filled the warehouse, echoing against metal walls. "When we do something boring, soundtripping makes it easier. Here, listen."
I found myself nodding to the rhythm, humming along even though I didn't know the lyrics. Soon, others joined in, turning the warehouse into an odd kind of choir. Some of the men teased, shipping me with Brother, laughing that we made a pair.
We both laughed it off, shaking our heads. "As if!" I said, chuckling.
But even in those moments of lightness, reality pressed against me. Because when work ended and I stepped back into the life waiting at home, everything weighed heavier.
---
+The Weight of Expectation+
Each payday, I carried home what little I earned, folding the bills neatly in my wallet as if that would make them stretch further. But it never seemed enough. Milk, diapers, rent, food—it all disappeared quickly.
And then came the in-laws.
"Why do you give so little?" one of them asked bluntly one evening as we gathered around the small table.
I clenched my fists under the surface. "Because it's all I have. Do you think my salary is magic? That I can make thousands appear?"
They shook their heads, muttering, and though no one said it outright, the judgment hung in the air.
Later, I confided in Noah. "They expect me to carry everything. Can't they see I earn barely enough for milk and rice? Why do they look at me like I'm failing?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Ignore them. They'll never understand. As long as we're trying, that's enough."
But his words didn't soothe me. Because each time I walked through that door, I felt the weight of eyes, of expectations, of disappointment that wasn't mine to bear alone.
The only thing that kept me moving forward was the sound of my child's laugh, the way her tiny hands reached for me, her innocence untouched by all the bitterness around us. She was my anchor, my reminder.
---
+Resigning Without Papers+
Routine became unbearable, not just for me but for Allen too. She worked alongside me, and though her smile rarely faltered, I could see the same exhaustion in her eyes.
"This isn't enough," she said one afternoon as we sat outside during lunch break. "The salary barely covers transportation. How do they expect us to survive?"
"I know," I murmured. "But what can we do?"
"Quit," she said firmly.
I blinked. "Quit? Just like that?"
"Why not? No papers, no drama. Just stop coming."
It sounded reckless, yet strangely freeing. I had thought resignations had to be formal, with signatures and clearances. But Allen's certainty was contagious.
So we did it. We stopped showing up, no letters, no formalities. Just walked away from the warehouse and into the unknown.
---
+BPO Attempts+
With nowhere else to go, Allen and I turned to the booming industry everyone seemed to chase: BPO.
We applied to a local call center, and within a week, we were in training. The fluorescent lights, the constant hum of computers, the pressure of mock calls—it was overwhelming.
"Customer care, this is Noira speaking, how may I help you?" I repeated over and over, my voice faltering each time. The trainers corrected me endlessly, demanding cheerfulness I could not muster on two hours of sleep.
After only a week, my body broke. Late nights stretched until dawn, and when I stumbled home in the morning, my baby's cries pulled me from what little rest I tried to steal. I couldn't keep up. Neither could Allen. We dropped out, too drained to continue.
A month later, stubbornness drove us to try again—another call center, another round of training. This time, we lasted longer. The routines became familiar, the jargon easier. But when the mock call assessment came, I froze. Words tangled on my tongue, my nerves shattering the illusion of competence.
"I'm sorry, Noira," the trainer said kindly but firmly. "You didn't pass."
The world tilted.
---
+Conversations at Home+
Noah and I sat at the edge of the bed that night, the baby asleep between us.
"What will we do if this keeps happening?" I asked, my voice breaking.
He looked at me helplessly. "I don't know. But we'll find something. We always do."
"Always?" I shook my head. "Always feels like barely."
The silence that followed was heavier than any words.
---
+The In-Laws' Proposal+
Then came the phone call.
It was Jovery, my mother-in-law, her voice firm yet oddly persuasive. "Noira, why don't you stop wasting time in that city? Come here to the National. Work opportunities are better, pay is higher. You'll have more support here."
I hesitated, chewing my lip. "But moving… it's not that simple. We have the baby, our things—"
"Think of the future," she pressed. "Do you want to struggle there forever? Or do you want to actually build something stable?"
The thought lingered long after we ended the call. For a month, maybe two, I wrestled with the idea. Could I uproot everything again? Could I trust them after everything?
But then, another blow came.
---
+The Start-Up Company+
Allen and I had landed a job at a small start-up tech company nearby. It wasn't glamorous, but it was something. I let myself breathe again, just a little.
But after only a week or two, our boss Cedrick called us into his office. He was polite, even apologetic, but his words cut deep.
"Right now, I don't think this is the right fit for you," he said gently. "It's not about effort. It's about suitability."
I nodded stiffly, heart sinking. "I understand."
But inside, I wanted to scream. How many times could I start over? How many times could hope be dangled in front of me only to be snatched away?
---
+Back to the Old House+
That night, Noah and I sat with the baby between us again, silent.
"Maybe your mother's right," I whispered finally. "Maybe we need to stop trying to survive here. Maybe we should go back."
He looked at me, tired, resigned. "If that's what you think is best."
So we packed what little we had, folded our lives into bags, and left the rented house behind.
Back to Granny's old house.
Back to the creaking walls, the scent of earth and dust, the memories buried in its corners. It wasn't the home I dreamed of, but it was shelter.
As I laid my baby down that night, I whispered, "I'll keep trying. For you. Even if the world keeps closing doors, I'll find a window."
And though the shadows of in-laws, financial struggles, and failures still loomed, her soft breathing reminded me why I endured.