Six months after giving birth, buried under mountains of baby laundry and running on barely any sleep, I hoped—prayed—for some understanding when our washing machine suddenly gave out.
I looked at Billy, my husband, expecting support. Instead, he gave me a blank stare and said, “Just wash everything by hand. Women did it for centuries, right?”
I blinked. Was he serious?
Apparently, yes. Because while I was scrubbing tiny onesies and burp cloths until my hands cracked, he was busy funding his mother’s tropical getaway. “I already promised her this trip,” he said. “You’ll manage.”
I wanted to scream. But instead, I stayed silent… and plotted.
For over two weeks, I became a laundry machine. I hand-washed every item—every bib, every pajama, every stained onesie—while also nursing, cleaning, cooking, and caring for a newborn around the clock. I didn’t complain. I didn’t yell.
But by the third week, I made a decision. If he thought hand-washing was so doable, I figured he should get the full experience.
So I stopped.
I washed only the baby’s clothes.
When Billy came home and couldn’t find a clean shirt for work, I smiled sweetly. When his socks were still dirty days later, I shrugged. “Didn’t have time today—there’s a lot to do, you know.”
By the fifth day, his patience cracked. He came home, slammed the door, and shouted, “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?”
I stayed calm. “I’m doing what you said. Washing by hand. But it’s exhausting, and the baby comes first. You’ll just have to wait your turn.”
He stood there, stunned.
I watched him for a second, then added, “See how fun it is?”
There was a long silence. He looked at the laundry pile, then at me, his pride visibly melting.
“I… I should’ve listened to you sooner.”
“Yeah,” I said, folding my arms. “You should have.”
He nodded once more, grabbed his phone, and walked out of the room without another word—no argument, no excuses. Just quiet understanding.
And honestly? That silence was louder than any apology.