Maya Bennett had been working from home since before it was trendy, back when people still asked if she wore pajamas to “the office” like it was the world’s most original joke. She ran payroll and bookkeeping for small construction crews and dental offices—steady clients who paid on time, real deadlines that didn’t care if you had a headache, actual work that required licenses and liability insurance. Her client roster included three dental practices, two landscaping companies, a plumbing outfit, and a medical billing service that trusted her with their quarterly taxes.
But to her husband’s mother, Linda Hale, “working from home” meant Maya sat around in sweatpants clicking randomly on the internet while “real adults” commuted to offices and earned their paychecks the proper way. It didn’t matter that Maya’s income had been supporting their household for the past eighteen months. It didn’t matter that she worked fifty-hour weeks or that her clients sent her gift baskets at Christmas because she’d saved them thousands in accounting errors.
What mattered to Linda was that Maya didn’t leave the house at eight a.m. in business casual, and therefore, she didn’t have a “real job.”
It started with snide comments at Sunday dinner, back when Maya still thought she could win Linda over with patience and politeness. “Must be nice to play on your laptop all day,” Linda would say, passing the mashed potatoes like she’d just delivered a clever observation instead of an insult.
When Maya tried to explain what she actually did—reconciling accounts down to the penny, filing quarterly tax estimates, managing invoices for six-figure construction projects—Linda would wave a hand dismissively. “If it’s real work, why don’t you have a real workplace? Why don’t people see you in an office?”
Maya had tried explaining that her clients preferred remote bookkeepers because it saved them office space and overhead.
She’d tried showing Linda the business license framed on her wall, the professional liability insurance policy, even a thank-you note from a client whose business she’d saved from an IRS audit. Linda had glanced at the note and said, “Well, anyone can write a nice card.”
Then came what Linda called “helpful requests” and what Maya recognized as deliberate interruptions designed to prove that Maya’s time wasn’t valuable. Linda would knock once—a courtesy that meant nothing since she’d already be turning the doorknob—and walk into Maya’s makeshift office without waiting for permission.
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