Dear CEO,
I hope you don’t mind me reaching out this way. I’m writing not to cause drama but because I’ve been carrying a lot quietly, for too long. And I need someone who shapes workplace culture to understand the quiet toll it takes on the people waiting at home.
I’m married to one of your staff. We have a sick son. At first, we agreed to split our finances 50-50. But when it came to emotional labor and housework, that balance disappeared. Suddenly, it became 90-10, and I was the one carrying the bulk of it.
Instead of finding a fair way to share the load, my partner suggested I stay home full-time. I agreed because I wanted to keep the peace. But that decision came with a cost.
Since my partner started working closely with you, things changed. He’s barely home. There’s always something—fishing trips, sports outings, entourage events. And almost every month, there’s an out-of-town entourage.
During Ramadan, it’s weekly. No breaks. Weekdays are long: he clocks in at 7am, and ends the day at the office clubhouse until 8pm. Weekends aren’t ours either. There’s a mandatory breakfast session from 7am to noon—every Saturday and Sunday, without fail.
And sometimes, it stretches into the evening when last-minute plans or entourage activities come up. It might sound small, but it takes away the only window we have to be a family.
We don’t have normal meals together. No breakfast as a family. No lunch or dinner where we sit and talk. Everything feels rushed, disconnected, and scheduled around someone else’s priorities. Plans are made without us. Time is taken without asking.
Our house feels like it’s in waiting mode. It’s not just about missing meals. It’s about missing presence. Missing the feeling of being a family. Because when the rhythm of our home is dictated by someone else’s calendar, it stops feeling like ours.
I’ve become invisible. Plans are made, weekends are booked, trips are confirmed—and I find out only when he’s already gone. I don’t get a say, I don’t get a moment to prepare, and I don’t even get the courtesy of a check-in. No heads-up. No updates. No calls. No texts. Just silence. It’s like I’m not part of the equation anymore.
I’ve been left out. My presence, my needs, my voice—none of it seems to matter anymore. I’m expected to adjust to this routine like it’s normal. Like it’s just part of being married to someone in this line of work.
Eventually, I tried to be understanding—he’s the only breadwinner, after all. I told myself to be patient, to not make things harder for him.
So I took a step back and asked myself: maybe I need to communicate better. Maybe if I could express things more clearly, he’d understand where I’m coming from.
That’s why I signed up for a communication degree. Not for work, not for career growth—but just to learn how to talk to my own partner. To bridge the gap. To find the right words when I’m hurting, and to listen better when he’s distant. It’s strange, isn’t it? Studying communication just to feel heard in your own home.
Along the way, a lot has happened. And slowly, the grey areas started piling up. Some confusing, some hurtful. Instead of getting clarity or honest answers, I kept choosing to be patient, forgiving, and understanding. I gave the benefit of the doubt, kept adjusting, kept absorbing the impact.
The truth stayed blurry. Things were vague, confusing, or half-explained. I was left guessing, doubting, piecing things together on my own. I let things slide to avoid conflict, to keep the peace, to tolerate things that hurt, just to hold the relationship together.
I kept being the bigger person, but it cost me clarity, safety, and peace. And over time, the emotional weight got heavier. It wasn’t always peaceful—there were storms. But we got through them. Or rather, I made sure we did. And that’s the part that hurts most. Not the storms, but the fact that I weathered them alone.
One example: when my friend and I found lipstick in his car, I asked a simple, calm question. Instead of an honest response, he became defensive, raised his voice, and retreated into coldness. No explanation. No accountability. No closure.
He made me feel like I was the problem just for asking. That’s how he operates. He either avoids the issue or turns it around to make me feel like I’m overreacting. It’s a repeated pattern—a cycle of silence, blame, and withdrawal.
Every time I try to reach out, I’m met with a wall. Every time I ask for clarity, I’m punished with distance. With him, honesty only shows up when it’s convenient. And love? It feels conditional. Offered only when I stay quiet.
I was the one who softened the tension. He, on the other hand, struggles with conflict communication. It’s not that he can’t speak—it’s that he chooses not to when it matters most. He doesn’t use love or kindness to make things better. He doesn’t try to understand or resolve. He either shuts down or shifts the blame. No effort to meet halfway.
Instead, he escapes through aggression, through silence, through dismissal. His “power” shows up when it’s time to shut down a conversation or dodge accountability. He doesn’t communicate—he escapes.
I was insulted—not just for being unemployed, but because of my mentally ill son. Words were thrown at me like I was a burden. Like I should be grateful just to be tolerated. “Tak bersyukur aku tanggung kau dua beranak.”
That sentence hit me like a slap. Not just once, but over and over in different forms. As if my worth is measured only by income, not by the emotional labor I carry every single day. I wasn’t seen as a partner. I was treated like a dependent. Like someone lucky to be “carried.”
What crossed a line was when he shared personal details about our son’s condition with you. It’s not something I parade around. It’s something I protect. When private family struggles are treated as workplace talk, it feels like a complete breach of privacy. And I still remember your remarks. They weren’t just hurtful. They were judgmental. You spoke without knowing the full story.
And the worst part? I stayed quiet. I swallowed it. I tried to be understanding. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. And for the record, you’d be surprised by the real reasons behind my son’s condition.
To you, he might look like an angel—taking care of both of us, providing, showing up. You might see an employee who looks successful: a man who pays the bills, who shows up at events, who entertains the boss. What you don’t see is what happens at home—emotional neglect and manipulation. You see generosity; I live with control. You see sacrifice; I live with imbalance.
Just so you know, his behaviour shifts depending on who he’s around. He knows how to perform—how to charm, how to impress, how to play the part. But I’m not part of that performance. At home, I get the version of him that’s cold, dismissive, and emotionally unavailable.
I’ve been insulted more times than I can count. Repeatedly, like it’s normal. Like it’s okay to throw words that cut deep, just because I’m not earning. Just because I’m caring for a mentally ill son. The way he makes me feel like I should be ashamed for needing support. For being tired. For asking for fairness.
I’ve swallowed those insults quietly. I’ve tried to stay calm, to be understanding, to not make things worse. But the truth is, every time it happens, a part of me breaks. And I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.
On top of everything, there’s the financial pressure. You convinced my husband to upgrade the BMW. We fought about it because I knew what that decision meant for us. It wasn’t just a car. It was a burden. I told him straight: “Kalau macam ni, kita makan pasir”. And I wasn’t joking. That car might look good on the outside. But inside our home, it came with sacrifice.
Did you know I only eat once a day? Not because I’m on a diet. But because that’s what I can afford to manage, quietly, without adding pressure. Meanwhile, my partner eats four full meals a day. He has the freedom to jalan-jalan cari makan, the appetite, the comfort. I have calculation. He enjoys the image of success. I absorb the imbalance of it. And that’s the part no one sees.
Absorbing, in my world, means sacrificing without being seen. It means holding everything together while being treated like I’m doing nothing. I’m not ungrateful. I’m exhausted. Not because I’m weak, but because I’ve been trying to make it work—alone.
The world sees polished titles and shiny cars. But I live with what’s behind that image: the imbalance, the silence, the quiet pain that never makes it into public view.
I’m not writing this to shame anyone. I’m asking you to look beyond the surface and to reflect. To understand that behind every staff member is someone like me—doing the invisible work, absorbing the imbalance, and trying to hold the family together while being left out of the picture.
To really think about the culture you’re shaping—not just at work, but in the lives of the families behind your staff. If your partner were in my place, would she be okay with this? Maybe you’d say yes—because she’d be compensated with overseas trips, comfort, and luxury.
But I’m not a CEO’s wife. I’m a normal staff wife. We don’t get the holidays. We don’t get the spa days. We get the leftovers. We get the silence. We get the emotional labour that no one sees.
What I’ve shared isn’t just about one man’s choices. It’s about a system that encourages neglect at home while celebrating obedience at work. It’s about the system around him—the workplace culture, the leadership style, the social dynamics—that shape how he shows up at home.
A culture that praises visibility: showing up to events, entertaining the boss, being part of the entourage. A culture that equates long hours and flashy gestures with loyalty and success.
I’m asking you, as someone with influence, to reflect on the culture you help shape. To understand that behind every staff member is a life, a home, a partner trying to hold it all together. There are daily adjustments made by spouses who are never consulted, never seen, never acknowledged.
And sometimes, that partner is tired. Not because she’s weak. But because she’s been strong for too long. Sometimes, she’s done. Even though she kept choosing to be the understanding one. She stayed quiet. She gave grace. She let things slide.
But instead of clarity, she got confusion. Instead of partnership, she got imbalance. And now, she’s speaking up—not to shame, but to be heard.
I’m asking for awareness. To see the invisible cost that families pay when work consumes everything. To question whether loyalty should be measured by absence at home. To ask yourself: are you building a culture that nurtures families, or one that quietly erodes them?
If loyalty at work continues to be measured by how much time a man can give to his boss, instead of how much presence he gives to his family, then you’re building not just a company culture, but a legacy of broken homes.
– Ghosting union (Bukan nama sebenar)
Hantar confession anda di sini -> https://iiumc.com/submit