At UM Hotel, we provide the best service, ranging from emotional and physical support, unconditional love and care, domestic upkeeping, and self-sacrifice. To book a room, please text your check-in date and time in the following format to ZZZ-UMHOTEL: dd/mm/yyyy — hh:mm:ss.

Remember, your wellbeing is of our utmost importance.

Enjoy your stay.

After making our daily announcement, we open up the list of rooms that require cleaning. Some guests don't have set schedules, so we check if they have their cleaning tags hanging on their doors or knock in case they don't. We used to have schedules too, before we worked at this hotel, but now we only follow the ever-changing events that occur in our guests’ lives. Some of us complain, though only during the night under the guise of the murmuring sound of those who should be asleep, video games and T.V. shows seeping from upper floors, and the hum of refrigerators from the kitchen storage nearby.

We knock on cousin Timeek's door with a crumpled tag barely holding onto the handle.

Sorry, I forgot to take it off, comes a sleepy mutter. 

The door cracks open, and a tanned hand sneaks out, ripping the tag off, causing more damage as Timeek snakes it back inside. We make a mental note to get a thicker tag for cousin Timeek next week.

Some of the guests like to make it harder for us, whether intentionally or unintentionally—the in-laws and relatives can be a tricky guess at times.

We knock on Emilia’s door, our knuckles quaking. We fight one another to decide who would be the one to disturb the most feared mother-in-law. No answer. With the master key, we enter and drag our cleaning cart closer to the entrance. Peek our head in. New towels in hand. Emila lurks in the bathroom with lights off, her lipstick half smeared in the dark. We flinch when we meet the whites of her eyes in the mirror. 

Excuse me?

Sorry, there was no answer after knocking…

And?

Your name is on our cleaning list…

Well take it off. I didn't ask for cleaning services. I can do it myself.

But we remember her signing up for the list when she first checked in. It is better to keep the lips sealed. Arguing would only make matters more dire. So we nod and leave, but place the new towels by the door just in case, and pick up the dirty one with half a muddy boot print. She says she doesn't need it, but we know that she does. We check the ratings: Emilia never leaves more than three stars.

On to the next room.

⁂

The clothes, have you ironed them yet?

We have, but sometimes the guests ask us to do it again, and again, even when there are no wrinkles in sight.

What will my clients think if they see such horrid creases on my tie?

The business woman, one of our wives, cannot accept anything less than perfect in her outer appearance though her room is in disarray.

I'm going to be late again.

We try waking young Rinny, but she insists on sleeping in since her high school is just down the street. She blames us anyway.

Knock on the door. School starts in an hour! You'll be late! This child of ours, Billen, is a little better. Sure, xe sleeps in too, but xe never blames us for it at least. And, though we're not sure how, Billen always makes it to school with ten minutes to spare—without needing to skip breakfast.

Heading out for the day? we ask the spouse, Lina, who is barely home most times.

Oh, yes. Sorry I didn't give a heads up first. They never do. But at least this time they apologize. We find it odd, but say nothing. They return that night when most of us are asleep and drop their room key at the desk. They never check back in.

⁂

We line up in two neat rows in front of the hotel's entrance, eagerly awaiting our new guest. The anticipation coats the palms of our hands and our dampening pits with sour sweat. With arms clenched tight to our sides, we hope we mask the smell well with jasmine or lavender perfume and that the bleached white of our blouses won't yellow throughout the day.

Mingchen walks in with a newborn child. Unnamed, for now. She wants to check in first before thinking of one, stating that she feels safer here than in the hospital. Cozy and calm are the words she gives. But the latter description does not last long, for her child wails and wails through the night. At first, Mingchen was grateful for our understanding and help. But then the flood of complaints start coming in: There are hours of crying at night. This is disrupting my sleep. Why aren’t the walls soundproof? Do something about this!

One of us sits with Mingchen in her room at night, taking turns rocking her baby by the moonlight. The open window and cool breeze seems to calm the child holding onto our thumb. In the distance, a cloud looms. We make a note to warn the rest of us in the morning. But for now, we hum soft lullabies—more for ourselves, more for Mingchen, than for the baby.

⁂

What is this?

All of us look up from our work station in the kitchen. By the door stands a guest. In their hand sits a plate of fried rice and barbecue pork. Behind them is a waiting line of other unimpressed guests. One of us is in the middle of plating, another is salting a new pot of soup, the one nearest to the guest is preparing to deliver a plate of fruit. Sweat drips from our brow, collecting at our chin, pooling at the collars of our uniforms.

Sorry, is there—

As soon as the words leave our lips, a string too spicy, too hot, too cold, too salty, too sweet, too little, too much assaults us in a chorus.

The soups we sometimes salt with our tears are too bland for the guests' tastes. Meals we top with our insomnia are not energizing enough. Our fingers calloused from washing the unending dishes we shuttle in from the dining room, rubbed raw from cutting, preparing gloveless. We plate beautiful, intricate meals—animal shaped buns and vegetables for the children; Michelin mirrors for the adults; thinly sliced, diced, and served delicacies for the elders—and they eat with the same expression every time, but the initial excitement when they first arrived at the hotel is priceless. And in the place of indifference, we imagine the smiling faces of our families and their relatives, hoping we can see it more often.

At the end of the day, some of us scrape half-eaten plates into the trash, others consume the leftovers or scrub the dishes. One of us brings in the last bowl, cleared, and we're glad. But we question whether one of us had done it themselves before bringing in just to spare the rest of us the pain.

⁂

Beneath our sleeping quarters, we hear the heavy, gasping breaths of those of us who power the hotel. Power outages are uncommon, but happen occasionally; when one of us is too tired to keep going we hide our fatigue from the others. We tell one another not to push too hard, yet we always push past our limits. Some of us do quit willingly. Some of us leave even when their families stay. Some stay, even after their families leave. And some… We have a cemetery behind the hotel for those of us who have passed. The guests are frequent visitors. Many graves are left untouched by mourning hands and gifted flowers.

Our legs pump, willing ourselves to go faster and faster on the treadmills and rowing and cycling machines; our minds' gears turn and turn as we took in instruction on how to improve ourselves, how to increase work productivity, how to please our guests—fueled by the judgemental words of families members and in-laws to be slimmer, more elegant, more efficient, smarter, faster, kinder, firmer.

It is never enough.

⁂

The primly dressed husband with consistently waxed hair asks for one of us at night. They always rejoin the rest of us with hidden bruises that we all know are there but never mention.

At night, we sleep in the unbooked rooms no one wants, even on discount—the ones with the cracked windows, next to the laundry room, facing the highways and train tracks where wheels rattle loud in the otherwise quiet of night, adding to the chaotic noises of our families during the day. We sleep in the ones in the basement with holes in the walls, and sometimes we imagine our children and spouses peeking through, wondering how could we sleep when there are still many things waiting to be completed? We sleep under leaking ceilings, between walls half-painted and wallpaper peeling and carpets soiled. In these rooms, we sleep unsoundly, but try to sleep as soundly as we can. We are not forced to sleep here—not all of us—we choose to—at least some of us. And we will continue to choose this path—again and again.

Rain from cracked windows drips in, wets the mattress. We sleep in the cold. But we don't move our beds away from the window because sometimes that is the only fresh air we get. Pipes leaking, flooding the floors. We imagine the king-sized beds and luxurious suites the guests inhabit, luxurious cribs the babies weep in. As soon as the image comes clear in our minds, we wipe ourselves of the desire, reprimanding ourselves for being selfish. It is enough for us that our guests enjoy themselves here.

In the morning, we wake with a shuddering smile, and the day starts again.

⁂

We rush to the front entrance, hoping to convince our guest to stay. It is one of our wives, and at her heel, one of our husbands, and behind them both, five of our children—who may or may not have had a say in decision to check out of the rooms we kept so neat, tidy, pristine, until the keeper of that room fell ill.

Who forgot their tasks for today?

Someone got food poisoning, one of us says as they rush towards those of us waiting in the lobby for the next guest.

Our nerves cause the tension to swirl around the room, making it feel as though it is closing in on us, cutting off our airways, squeezing out every last breath held in our lungs so we see stars, on the verge of a fainting spell.

We find one of us collapsed on the floor, fever breaking, no one around to help. We can only help ourselves. But our immediate thought is not to move our ill member back down to the basement, but to pull out our phones and check the hotel's rating first: ⋆⋆⋆⋆. One fewer than the day before. We were always able to maintain five stars even with Emilia's constant spite. But this.

Our phones ping. There are maintenance issues. Where is the concierge? They're being too slow. I asked for noodles an hour ago. There is dirt on the new towels. My laundry is still where I left it. The chauffeur? They dropped me off five minutes late!

To tend to the guests, we leave one of us still passed out on the floor. And when we look back, a weak smile slips away from their face as they wave us onwards.

Yes, the guests are more important.

⁂

An alarm rings—one that only we can hear.

The news broadcast warns us of a severe storm. It will be one of the largest in a long while. In the meeting room, we hold each other, wondering what we should do. Not all of us are brave, not all of us are as strong as the others, but the most courageous of us stand and tell us they will protect us all. And how will they do that? We look at one another, questioning.

First comes the wind, a gentle breeze all the guests enjoy when they journey out of the hotel, a breeze we too enjoy as the revolving entrance door brings it inside. Then the winds thicken as the clouds become denser, darkening. Chandeliers tremble. Walls shake. Floors shift. Until tables and chairs topple and the ceiling flakes and crumble. The brave ones rush out, unafraid of the storm: its cries of thunderous rage, its sharp winks of lightning threatening to slice into our bodies, into this hotel—our home.

And the brave scale the walls of UM Hotel, holding onto its shuddering frame, hold onto each other's quaking bodies. Those of us waiting inside watch, listen, until everything stills. But outside the revolving door, the storm rages on. The guests climb from under beds and heavyset tables that still stand erect.

Life goes back to normal—for them.

The brave remain outside for hours, days, weeks, still clinging on, refusing to allow the winds to rattle those of us inside. When the guests ask if it is safe to go outside, we say no.

Why are the walls no longer rattling?

We don't answer. We can't risk any of those who care to join the brave outside. Their loss would be too great for us to bear.

⁂

We retire to our bedrooms, thinking of our courageous ones still outside. Sleepless nights of tossing and turning, itching limbs, painful minds.

Right before dawn, when we have to wake again, there is a knock on our door. Outside stands a child, Billen. In xyr hand, xe holds up a phone. We squint on the last line on the screen.

We laugh a joyless laugh because such a thing is not possible, not yet, not here. But maybe in the future, if this child so chooses, xe could join us. When xe is old enough to welcome guests of xyr own. But it is still too early to say if Billen will have such a wish when xe realizes the truth of our labours, the reality of our sleepless nights, the screech of our worries, our anxieties, our… failures. It is not always a glorious job, but it is moments like these that makes it all worth it in the end.

Perhaps this is a spoken ballad to ourselves—one we never allow others to listen to, and one we secretly wish others would ask for.

And when we wake once again in the morning at our hotel—the full name of which we never dare voice: Unappreciated Mothers Hotel—we will welcome you home. 

Remember, your wellbeing is of our utmost importance.

Enjoy your stay.