For the woman who disappears without leaving.
The one who folds laundry like camouflage,
who cooks like a hired ghost,
who answers questions no one asked
and holds space for people who never ask her how she is.
This is not a jacket.
It’s revenge against being background décor.
The ribbed cuffs say: don’t touch my time.
The zipper says: I won’t explain myself again.
The pockets fit secrets, receipts, and quiet rage.
A uniform for the invisible housewife who finally shows up for herself.
Wear it like volume.
Like a siren in a silent apartment.
Like the answer to a question no one cared to ask.
You are no longer furniture.
You walk into rooms and become the wallpaper’s nightmare.
For the woman who disappears without leaving.
The one who folds laundry like camouflage,
who cooks like a hired ghost,
who answers questions no one asked
and holds space for people who never ask her how she is.
This is not a jacket.
It’s revenge against being background décor.
The ribbed cuffs say: don’t touch my time.
The zipper says: I won’t explain myself again.
The pockets fit secrets, receipts, and quiet rage.
A uniform for the invisible housewife who finally shows up for herself.
Wear it like volume.
Like a siren in a silent apartment.
Like the answer to a question no one cared to ask.
You are no longer furniture.
You walk into rooms and become the wallpaper’s nightmare.
