I used to think living with women would be complicated. Emotional. Full of passive-aggressive dish warfare. And okay, sometimes it is. But mostly, it’s warm. It’s loud in the best way. There’s always music playing, always someone to talk to, always a random baked good appearing on the counter for no reason.
It started subtly. I moved in with three women—my sister, her best friend, and a quiet art student named Maya who only emerges for oat milk and existential dread. I thought I was joining a democracy. I was wrong. I had entered a matriarchy, and in that ecosystem, there are only two roles: the cat or the dog. i became the dog in an all female household
Last week, Sarah dropped half an avocado toast. I looked at it. She looked at me. She said, “Five-second rule?” I ate it. No plate. No dignity. Just floor guacamole and a quiet sense of purpose. I used to think living with women would be complicated
