Six months after giving birth, buried under a mountain of baby laundry and running on fumes, I figured my husband would understand how badly we needed a new washing machine when ours broke.
I was wrong.
Instead of stepping up, he casually said, “People used to wash everything by hand for centuries — you can manage for a few weeks.”
That moment changed everything.
Life with a new baby was already overwhelming — bottles, diapers, constant messes. I was barely sleeping, barely functioning. And then the washer died with a final, pathetic grind. I tried everything — unplugged it, kicked it, begged it — but it was gone.
When I told my husband, Billy, he barely looked up from his phone. “Not this month,” he muttered. “I promised to pay for my mom’s vacation.”
I blinked. His mom’s vacation?
Apparently, she “deserved” it for “babysitting” — which, in reality, meant she’d dropped by once a month, lounged on our couch, and napped while I did everything.
I tried to stay calm. Explained how the baby’s clothes needed daily washing. How I was already drowning.
He shrugged. “Just do it by hand. Women used to.”
Something in me snapped.
Fine, I thought. If Billy wanted me to live like it was 1800, I’d return the favor. So the next morning, I packed his lunchbox — full of rocks. With a little note on top:
“Men used to hunt for their food. Go start a fire and roast something.”
At lunchtime, he burst through the door, furious. I smiled sweetly. “What’s the problem? That’s how they used to do it for centuries.”
He was livid. Embarrassed in front of his coworkers. I didn’t care. I was done suffering in silence.
That night, something changed. He sat on the couch sulking, but didn’t say much. The next morning, he left early without a word.
When he returned, he dragged in a brand-new washing machine.
No fanfare. No excuses. Just action.
He hooked it up, then finally looked at me and said, “I get it now.”
And for once, I believed he did.