We are living in a moment when the presence of migrant workers is more visible than ever, yet their inner lives remain unevenly told. There are still not enough works of literary fiction centered on women as migrant workers—especially domestic workers. These stories do exist, but they are often older, or they appear only in fragments across texts—rather than being fully centered, these women tend to remain at the edges of someone else’s narrative. This absence is particularly striking to me because I grew up surrounded by such women. My mother. My aunties. The housekeepers and nannies in the homes of friends who had more than we did. It wasn’t something I had to learn about—it was simply the texture of everyday life. I watched how much these women carried, how much they gave, and how often that labor passed without anyone really stopping to see it for what it was. I also remember how natural it all felt then. How unquestioned. The early mornings and the long days my mother kept.…