My fiancé, Ryan, wandered in, praising her efforts and calling her “a good little homemaker.” Amila lit up at his words, but I couldn’t ignore the uneasy feeling gnawing at me. This didn’t seem normal. Why was she pushing herself so hard?
As time passed, my concern grew. Amila looked tired, and if she ever made a small mistake—like spilling juice—her face would crumble, as though she feared serious consequences.
One day, I decided to talk to her. Kneeling beside her while she cleaned the table, I said, “You know you’re just a kid, right? It’s not your job to do all this work.”
She tensed, still wiping the surface. “I just want everything to be perfect,” she murmured.
My heart ached. Carefully, I asked, “Amila, why are you doing all this? Are you scared of something?”
Her eyes dropped, and after a long silence, she finally spoke. “I heard Daddy say that if a woman doesn’t get up early to cook and clean, no one will love her or marry her. I don’t want Daddy to stop loving me.”
Her words felt like a punch to the gut. My sweet Amila believed she had to earn love through chores. That had to end right now.
The next morning, after another carefully prepared breakfast, I changed tactics. I wheeled the lawnmower into the kitchen and calmly asked Ryan, “Could you take care of the lawn today?” He shrugged and agreed.
The following day, I handed him a basket of laundry and asked him to clean the windows. By the third day, I had him reorganizing the garage and cleaning the gutters. Finally, he demanded, “What’s with all these chores?”
I looked him straight in the eye. “Ryan, Amila heard you say a woman must cook and clean to be loved. She thinks she needs to earn your affection by working herself to exhaustion.”
His face went pale. “I never meant that,” he stammered, but intention wasn’t the issue. Amila had taken his words to heart.
“You need to make this right,” I said firmly. “She’s seven, Ryan. She should know your love doesn’t depend on chores.”
That evening, I waited outside Amila’s door as Ryan went in to talk. I heard his gentle voice, full of regret. He explained that he loved her no matter what, that she didn’t have to lift a finger to keep his affection. She sniffled softly, and they hugged. It was a start.
Over the next few weeks, Ryan became more mindful, sharing the household tasks himself and making sure Amila knew she was cherished for who she was. Slowly, the weight lifted from her small shoulders.
Love, I realized, isn’t just sweet words. Sometimes it means facing uncomfortable truths and fixing what’s broken. In our home, we replaced harmful ideas with understanding. As we sat down for a simple, unforced breakfast one morning—no one feeling pressured— I knew we were building a healthier, more honest future.
Toxic traditions had no place in our family.