As my consciousness slowly wafts back into my body, I sightlessly stretch out, my right hand grabbing towards the arctic expanse of empty sheets on my husband's side of the bed. My drowsy brain had forgotten that he had not come home last night. But the same thing happens every morning; each day I hope that I will wake up beside him. Around one third of the time, my naïve expectations are fulfilled. Another third of the time, I estimate, it is a different woman who receives the honour of sharing a bed with my husband.

Of course I know that my husband is unfaithful. I realise that I am not supposed to; he expects me to suspect nothing. Society expects me to suspect nothing. I am a cardboard cut-out, after all. A beautiful addition to the perfect family home's furniture. Able to make charming conversation with those important to my husband, and with a select group of twittering friends with whom I work tirelessly to improve the world. We hold benefits to raise money for charity, but our real value is in the way that we constantly strive to maintain order and prosperity in our households; the grown woman's version of the little girl's dollhouse. Women truly advance so far in their lives, don't they?

Shrieking rises up from downstairs, 'Bobby, stop! Carla, he's flicking Wackies in my hair!' I had managed to sit up by this stage, but hearing my little girl screech like a rodent being chased by a tabby cat causes such a feeling of despair to douse me that I flop, ironically almost as inelegantly as my daughter, back onto my bed. Young ladies should not sound like that, cannot sound like that; not if they ever wish to win a husband. No proper man will choose a shrew for a wife. Then again, no proper man should attempt to litter his sister's hair with his breakfast. But how then is Bobby supposed to know how a proper man should behave? He may as well have no father. He lives in a household of girls; myself, Sally and Carla.

Yes, I classify myself as a girl. I went to college, sure. Yet my life involves completing activities a fourteen-year-old would be able to manage. How is it that the majority of society seems to believe that women are capable of no more? Even my fellow females appear to regard this as an accepted fact. The grass is green, the sky is blue, the coloured serve us; the goal of any woman should be to get herself a husband capable of supporting his family, and look after his household and home. A man takes care of his family by earning money; a woman literally takes care of her family. Historically, that has always been the way. No one remembers Boadicea. To be truthful, women have gained the most freedom in the last 50 years than they have in the last five centuries. It almost seems selfish to wish for more. But then, that ties back into one of the reasons why I classify myself as a girl; my hopes are childishly optimistic, and my dreams stupidly naïve. Though can that be right? Is it possible for something be naïve if I am aware that it is naïve? It must be, for it seems to be the only thing that keeps me sane.

I gather my strength around me, along with my dressing robe, as I hear Carla calm the children and dispel the crisis. Once all has been silent for at least three minutes, I glide downstairs, a flawless expression of happiness and love perfected by years of modeling settled on my skin. It itches and aches and threatens to crumble, as if I had been posing all day for a hundred re-shoots of a photo. But I only woke up ten minutes ago. My hands tremble like a dusty spiderweb in a draft, my face remaining plaster cast-set. The children whirl to face me, opening their mouths simultaneously, each about to denounce the other. Carla sees and immediately steps in,

'Y'all finished with yo breakfast? Go give yo lovely mother a kiss.'

The children reluctantly close their mouths and I move closer, bending down to receive a slightly sticky kiss on each cheek.

'Good morning, Darlings. Did you sleep well?'

'No!' Sally almost yells. She ignores Carla's desperate, disapproving look and carries on, 'I woke up in the middle of the night because I thought I heard Daddy come home, but I looked outside and the porch light was off, and then I had to go to the toilet, and then I was cold, and then...'

'Oh, Sweetie,' I awkwardly begin stroking her hair, forcing myself to disregard the twitching start she gives as she feels the unexpected touch, 'you know that Daddy works very hard, and that sometimes he just can't come home to us. I love you by looking after you, and Daddy loves you by earning money so that we can have a beautiful house to live in and so that you and Bobby can have lovely clothes and toys.'

Bobby nods along with my words and, when I finish, swivels around on his seat to talk with certainty to his sister,

'And Daddy loves Mummy by earning money so that she can have lovely clothes... and the new electric toaster that we just got yesterday!'

He grins up at me like an eager puppy, so sure that he has given the right answer. I can practically feel Carla wincing from her position behind me, washing up the children's bowls at the kitchen sink. She should not be listening to this. How embarrassing. No doubt she will gossip with her coloured friends, and the idea that the Betty Draper has to make do with a toaster in lieu of her husband will be spread around all the houses in the neighbourhood. I can only pray that it travels no further than the maids, and attempt to seal in the tears with a shaking smile.

'That's... that's...' I sigh and trail off. How do you respond to a statement like that, spoken by your own son as though it were as true and unquestionably accepted as the Constitution?

Carla, once more, comes to my rescue.

'Sally, Bobby, if y'all don't go and get yo'selfs dress' soon, y'all gonna be late t' school!'

I nod hurriedly, gratefully,

'Carla's right. Go get dressed, now. Remember to brush your teeth and your hair. I'll get dressed, too, then I'll drive you.'