When my husband declared that scrubbing the bathroom was “women’s work,” I immediately knew I had to take action. What followed involved his cherished Xbox, my cousin’s professional cleaning skills, and a few well-chosen words that completely turned his world upside down. The expression on his face was absolutely priceless.
Looking back now, I realize I should have noticed the warning signs much earlier.
But when you’re in love, you tend to overlook flaws in the people you care about. That’s exactly what I did with Eric for the first two years of our marriage.
Now, don’t get me wrong — Eric wasn’t a bad husband.
He was actually wonderful in many ways. He remembered my birthday, surprised me with flowers just because, and could make me laugh until I cried. During our first year together, I genuinely believed I’d hit the jackpot.
“My friends told me I was lucky — that Eric was a real catch,” I recall.
And he was, in his own way. He worked as a software engineer, putting in long hours and bringing home a solid paycheck.
He never grumbled about handling outside chores like grocery shopping, taking out the trash, or car maintenance. Those were his responsibilities, and he tackled them without being asked.
But inside the house? That was my domain.
Despite working full-time running a small marketing firm downtown, I found myself scrubbing floors late at night, doing laundry on weekends, and making sure the dishes were done for dinner.
Eric would come home, grab a beer, and settle into his gaming chair for hours, immersed in Call of Duty or the latest video game release.
“Babe, you work so hard,” I’d say, trying to fight off guilt. “You deserve to relax.”
He’d flash that boyish grin I’d fallen for. “Thanks for understanding, Alice. You’re the best wife a guy could ask for.”
So I kept cleaning. I kept cooking. I kept pretending that love meant doing everything myself while he leveled up his characters.
In hindsight, I realize I was enabling him, but at the time, it felt like supporting him.
Everything changed the day I saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test.
My hands trembled as I stared at the small plastic stick in our bathroom. We’d been trying for months, and now, there it was — undeniable proof that we were going to become parents.
“Eric!” I called, practically bouncing with excitement. “Come here!”
He paused his game and hurried to the bathroom. “What’s wrong? You sound strange.”
Holding up the test, I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt. “We’re having a baby.”
His expression shifted instantly.
His eyes widened, then softened with the biggest smile I’d ever seen.
“Are you serious?” He swept me into a hug. “We’re really doing this? We’re going to be parents?”
“We really are,” I confirmed through tears of joy.
Eric had always been great with kids. My sister’s twins adored him, and he spent hours at family gatherings building forts and teaching card tricks. Seeing his excitement made my heart swell.
Over the next months, Eric proved he could step up when it mattered.
He drove me to every doctor’s appointment, built the crib without cursing once, and spent hours researching baby gear. He came home with tiny outfits he couldn’t resist.
“Look how small these shoes are,” he marveled. “Our baby’s feet will fit in these.”
He painted the nursery a gentle yellow since we wanted the gender to be a surprise. He installed blackout curtains and a nightlight that projected stars onto the ceiling.
When morning sickness left me unable to keep anything down, he brought me crackers and ginger tea in bed.
For those nine months, it felt like we were partners. Eric was attentive, caring, and involved. I believed the baby would bring out the best in both of us.
But I was wrong.
Our daughter Emma was born on a Wednesday morning after 12 hours of labor. The moment she was placed on my chest, I felt an overwhelming love I hadn’t expected. Eric stood beside me, tears streaming as he gently stroked her dark hair.
“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “Look at those tiny fingers. Alice, we made this beautiful person.”
The first few days were a blur of diapers, feeding schedules, and sleepless nights. But Eric surprised me.
He took two weeks off work and threw himself into being a dad with the same enthusiasm he showed during pregnancy. He changed diapers without complaint, walked Emma when she was fussy, and even learned to swaddle better than I could.
“You’re a natural,” I told him one night as he rocked Emma back to sleep after a 3 a.m. feeding.
“I want to be the best dad,” he said softly. “She deserves that.”
For those first two weeks, we were a team.
We shared nighttime duties, cooked meals together, and Eric even helped with laundry. I thought parenthood had changed him.
But when he went back to work, things shifted.
At first, Eric still helped with Emma after work — feeding, bathing, reading bedtime stories — but the household chores started slipping back to me.
“You’re home all day,” he’d say when I complained about the laundry pile. “I’m exhausted from work.”
By six weeks postpartum, I was back to doing it all — cooking, cleaning, laundry, shopping — while caring for a newborn around the clock.
Eric would come home, spend 20 minutes with Emma, then disappear into his gaming world.
“I need to decompress,” he’d explain. “Work is stressful.”
Meanwhile, I was running on three hours of sleep, covered in spit-up, and wondering when I last showered. But I told myself it was temporary. Maternity leave would end soon, and we’d find balance.
Then I got sick.
It started with a sore throat on Thursday, but by Saturday I was burning up with fever and barely able to stand. Emma had been fussy all night; I’d been up since 2 a.m. My body ached, my head pounded.
“Eric,” I called weakly from the couch while trying to feed Emma. “I need help. I’m really sick.”
He looked up from his phone with a frown. “What kind of help?”
“Can you clean the bathroom? I was supposed to do it yesterday, but I feel awful. And maybe watch Emma for a few hours so I can rest?”
His face scrunched up in disgust. “Gross. That’s your job. It’s women’s work. I’m not scrubbing toilets.”
I stared at him. “Did you just say that?”
“Come on, Alice. You know I don’t do that stuff. It’s disgusting. You’re better at it anyway.”
Let me get this straight: using the bathroom like a frat boy? Fine. Cleaning it when your wife is sick? Too disgusting.
That’s when I made a decision that changed everything.
“Stacey?” I said into the phone after Eric went to the bedroom. “I need a big favor.”
My cousin Stacey had been a professional housekeeper for eight years. She owed me a favor — I’d helped her through a rough divorce last year by letting her stay in our guest room and lending her money.
“What’s going on, honey?” Stacey’s voice was full of concern. “You sound terrible.”
“I am terrible. I need you to come clean my house Monday morning. I’ll pay your full rate, plus a bonus.”
“Of course! But you don’t usually ask for help. Are you okay?”
“Let’s just say I’m about to teach my husband a very expensive lesson.”
Monday morning, Stacey arrived at 9 a.m. with her supplies and a big smile.
“Where do you want me to start?”
“The bathroom,” I said firmly. “Make it spotless.”
While she worked, I packed an overnight bag for Emma and myself.
Three hours later, the house sparkled. I paid Stacey in cash with a generous tip and hugged her goodbye.
“Thanks for this,” I said. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“Anytime, cousin. But I feel there’s more to this story.”
“There definitely is. I’ll call you later.”
Eric came home around 6 p.m., probably expecting dinner.
Instead, he found me sitting on the couch with Emma, both of us ready to go out.
His eyes widened as he looked around the clean house.
“Wow!” he said. “You finally cleaned. It looks amazing.”
“Nope,” I smiled. “I hired someone. Since you don’t like touching toilets, I used your Xbox to pay for it.”
“You what?”
“Your Xbox. I sold it online this morning for $800 — just enough to pay Stacey’s bill. You weren’t using it anyway, busy insisting that cleaning bathrooms is women’s work.”
“Alice, you can’t just sell my stuff!” he protested.
“Actually, I can. You said chores were my job, so I can spend household money however I want. Right?”
He was speechless, staring at the empty spot where his gaming setup had been.
I kissed Emma’s forehead, stood up, and grabbed our bag. “We’re staying at my mom’s for two days. Meanwhile, you can enjoy your spotless kingdom and think about what you said. Oh, and Stacey didn’t do laundry — that’s your job now.”
The look on his face as I walked out was priceless.
When I returned after two days, the house was clean, laundry folded, and Eric was waiting with an apology and a promise to change. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a new sense of responsibility.
Sometimes, you have to sell a thing or two to teach your husband a lesson.