The Caregiver’s Grimoire

By day, I am a caregiver. I cook, I clean, I soothe, I serve. My family leans on me, but rarely thanks me. They see the meals, the folded laundry, the medicine logged—but not the weight I carry.

By night, I become something else. Down in the basement, behind the old shelves, I keep an altar. Candles. Herbs. A bowl of salt. This is where I reclaim myself. Where I whisper to the dark. Where I complete my nightly rituals, unseen. They don’t know. They wouldn’t understand. But the spirits do. And they never forget to thank me.

This morning, I fed Lily and Penelope their breakfast—two sleepy heads, two bowls, two tiny rituals. While they chewed and chattered, I watched Luke, making sure he took his medication. He didn’t notice the way I counted the pills like blessings. He didn’t see the way I stirred the oatmeal like a spell. They think I’m just tired. Just a caregiver. But beneath the surface, I’m something else. The altar waits. And tonight, the basement will glow.

I haven’t told Luke about the basement. About who I really am. Maybe I’m afraid of how he’d look at me— not with anger, but with that quiet distance that feels worse.

This year has been heavy. The children have been sick. Luke had a stroke. And then came the other things— the ones we don’t name, just carry.

Now the morning has passed. Luke is outside, wandering the yard with the girls. They’re looking for something— a squirrel, a feather, a sign. I don’t ask.

This is my break. My breath. The part of the day that belongs to me.

I went outside with them for a little while. Then I came in, picked up the living room, started a load of laundry, and made a light dinner. Everyone was tired today. Luke went to bed early. I tucked Lily and Penelope in, even though they’re old enough to do it themselves. They were on their phones, so I told them it was time to charge them—and themselves—and sleep.

Later, I checked on Luke. He was on his side, sleeping. His breath was steady, his body still. I watched him for a moment, unsure if I felt relief or dread. Then I slipped away—quiet as a shadow—and went downstairs.

The basement was cool, waiting. I lit a candle. Its flame flickered, then steadied. I checked the threads—each knot dyed with herbs, tears, and blood. Each one tied with a whispered vow.

The protection spells were holding. I could feel their hum, low and constant, like a heartbeat beneath the floorboards. But they were tightening. And with each act of devotion, the ritual grew stronger— not just shielding Luke, but binding him.

I sit at the altar, candle lit, breath shallow. Upstairs, the house hums with exhaustion—Luke asleep, the girls tucked in, the day’s weight still lingering in the corners. I whisper for protection. Not just for them, but for me. For the part of me that’s fraying under the strain of vigilance. For the part that needs silence to remember who she is.

The threads are steady. The knots hold. But my anxiety presses against the ritual like wind against glass. I stir the bowl of salt. I touch the herbs. I ask the spirits to help me hold the line.

This is my breath. My break. My quiet rebellion against unraveling.

Maternal vigilance has become both sanctuary and snare. I meant to preserve memory, to anchor the soul. But now I wonder: Have I silenced chaos too tightly? Have I trapped possibility along with danger?

The altar glows. The threads pulse. And somewhere upstairs, one of the girls stirs.

I close my eyes. The cost of protection is rising. And soon, I will have to choose: Unravel the knots and risk exposure. Or continue, and risk erasure.

A chill runs through me—faint, but sharp enough to cut through the hum of the house. I stop what I’m doing and go upstairs to check.

Luke is still on his side, sleeping. The girls are quiet, their phones dimmed, their breath steady. But something feels off. Like a thread has slipped loose. Like a whisper has escaped the circle.

Had I finished the protection spell? Had I sealed the last knot? I couldn’t remember. And that not-knowing presses against my chest like a stone.

I go back downstairs, faster this time. The altar is waiting, but the candle has guttered low. I relight it, hands trembling. I trace the circle again, check the herbs, the salt, the threads. One knot—unfinished. One vow—unspoken.

I whisper it now, voice raw. Let no harm slip through. Let no shadow take root. Let no love be lost to silence.

The flame steadies. But the unease lingers.

I glance at the clock on the wall. 2:00 a.m. Time to go to bed, so I can rise and begin again. The cycle never stops—meals, medicine, murmured care.

But tonight, something feels different. The basement is quiet, but not still. The altar hums with a new tension. I don’t know what’s changed—only that something has. A shift in the salt. A flicker in the flame. A thread that feels too tight, or too loose.

Tomorrow, maybe I’ll tell Luke. Or maybe I’ll wait. Maybe the truth will rise on its own, like steam from a cracked bowl.

That’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, I blow out the candle. I climb the stairs. And I carry the silence with me.

I set the alarm for 6 a.m. Sleep came quickly, but the dreams were different. Not chaotic, not sharp—just strange. Soft edges, flickering symbols, threads that glowed and pulsed. I couldn’t hold onto them, but they held onto me.

Morning came too soon. I hit the alarm, silencing its insistence, and rose. Dressed quietly. Went downstairs to make breakfast. The house was still. I hummed to myself—half melody, half spell.

Then I felt him. Luke came up behind me, kissed the back of my neck. “Good morning,” he said, voice low.

I turned, startled. “What are you doing up so early?”

He smiled. “I missed you.”

Just three words. But they landed like a blessing. Like a thread re-tied. Like a vow returned.