We were in a twelve-person van, despite only five of us being seated. The van, which I assumed from my faded memory, was probably gray, not black. The view of Malaga, in the south of Spain, was rather dry and depressing, like my mental state at the time. I was a nanny for a middle-class Swedish family who decided to spend a warmer winter down south of Europe. After a week of living under the pool in a humid room, burning with high-fever flu, that day was the first time I got to see a glimpse of Málaga.

Next to my left was a boy — grumpy, bratty, in his car seat. On my right there was a few-month-old baby girl, which I hardly recognize her name now. Both of the kids, actually—the whole family—I barely recall their names.

Against the blowing wind from the rolled-down right window, the mom was smiling, caressing a red scarf in her hands. She tried to wrap it around her head, creating that fun energy with a hippie-arty look. The carefree and confident act, however, drew a questionable and cynical glance from her husband, who was driving. He asked her something, probably nothing kind, so she quickly put it down and laughed it off. 

Well, not on my watch. 

"Red looks nice on you." 

I spoke softly from the back seat. 

Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to love someone enough to build a family, but still feel parts of yourself being left behind. To feel your identity as a woman slowly fade the moment you become a mother. Like you’re no longer fully there, just a version of you, after children.

She turned to me with a dry, almost forced smile. “Thank you.”

Then she glanced at her husband again, whose mind was probably wandering somewhere else. Her eyes widened just a little. Then she turned to him and said, “Happy International Women’s Day.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “We work every day,” he said flatly.
She let out a weak laugh.

Then she turned back to me.
“Oh hey—Happy International Women’s Day, Pat.”