Six months postpartum, buried under piles of baby laundry and running on fumes, I thought my husband would step up when our washing machine broke. Instead, he barely glanced up from his phone and shrugged.

“Just wash everything by hand—people did it for centuries.”

That was the moment I realized something had to change.

The Endless Cycle of Laundry

Before becoming a mom, I never imagined how much laundry one tiny human could generate. Every day was a blur of feeding, cleaning, soothing a fussy baby to sleep—and endless washing.

On a good day, I tackled eight pounds of tiny onesies, burp cloths, blankets, and bibs. On a bad day? I stopped counting.

So when the washing machine let out a dying groan and stopped mid-cycle, my heart sank. I pressed buttons, unplugged it, plugged it back in. Nothing.

Panic settled in my chest.

When Billy came home from work, I wasted no time.

“The washing machine is dead,” I said as soon as he walked in.

“Huh?” He barely looked up from his phone.

“We need a new one. Soon.”

Billy sighed as if I had just asked for a yacht. “Not this month.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I already promised to pay for my mom’s vacation. She deserves it.”

His mom’s vacation?

Billy continued, oblivious to my growing fury. “She’s been babysitting for us. I thought it’d be nice to do something for her.”

Babysitting? His mother visited once a month, sat on the couch, watched TV, ate the dinner I cooked, and took a nap while the baby slept. That wasn’t babysitting. That was visiting.

“Billy, when was the last time your mom even changed a diaper?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

“That’s not the point.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, I think it is.”

He rubbed his face, exasperated. “Look, can’t you just wash everything by hand for now? People did it for centuries. Nobody died from it.”

My blood boiled. Wash everything by hand. Like I wasn’t already exhausted from sleepless nights, barely keeping my head above water.

But I knew Billy. Arguing wouldn’t change his mind.

So I exhaled, clenched my jaw, and said, “Fine.”

The Breaking Point

The first load wasn’t too bad.

I filled the bathtub with soapy water and scrubbed. My arms ached, but I told myself it was temporary. Just a few weeks.

By the third load, my back screamed in protest. My fingers were raw. And I still had towels, bedsheets, and Billy’s work clothes to wash.

Every day was the same. Wake up, feed the baby, clean, cook, scrub laundry, wring it out, hang it up. My hands cracked from the soap. My shoulders stiffened.

Billy didn’t notice.

He came home, kicked off his shoes, ate the dinner I cooked, and stretched out on the couch.

One night, after another grueling day, I collapsed onto the couch next to him. I winced as I rubbed my aching hands.

Billy glanced at me. “What’s wrong with you?”

I stared at him. “What’s wrong with me?”

“You look tired.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Gee, I wonder why.”

He turned back to the TV.

Something snapped inside me.

Billy wasn’t going to understand—not unless he felt the inconvenience himself.

A Taste of His Own Medicine

The next morning, I packed his lunch as usual. Except instead of his usual meal, I filled his lunchbox with stones.

Right on top, I placed a folded note.

Then I kissed his cheek and sent him off to work.

At exactly 12:30 PM, Billy stormed through the front door, red-faced and furious.

“What the hell is this?!” He slammed his lunchbox onto the counter.

I turned from the sink, wiping my hands on a towel. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

He flipped open the lid, revealing the pile of rocks. He grabbed the note and read it out loud:

“Men used to get food for their families themselves. Go hunt your meal, make fire with stones, and fry it.”

His face twisted in rage. “Are you out of your damn mind, Shirley? I had to open this in front of my coworkers!”

I crossed my arms. “Oh, so public humiliation is bad when it happens to you?”

Billy clenched his jaw. He looked like he wanted to yell, but for once, he had no comeback.

“Go on, Billy. Tell me how this is different.”

He exhaled sharply. “Shirley, this is just childish.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, I see. So your suffering is real, but mine is just me being childish?”

“You could have just talked to me!” he snapped.

I stepped forward, my voice deadly calm. “Talked to you? I did, Billy. I told you I was exhausted. And you shrugged and told me to do it by hand. Like I was some woman from the 1800s.”

Billy looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You thought I’d just take it, huh?” I continued. “That I’d scrub and break my back while you sat on that couch every night without a care in the world?”

He swallowed hard.

“I’m not a servant, Billy. And I’m sure as hell not your mother.”

Silence.

Finally, he muttered, “I get it.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. I do.”

I let his words settle. Then I turned back to the sink.

“Good. Because if you ever put your mother’s vacation over my basic needs again, you’d better learn how to start a fire with those rocks.”

A Lesson Learned

That evening, Billy barely touched his dinner. He didn’t turn on the TV. He sat on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it had personally betrayed him.

I didn’t care.

For once, he was the one uncomfortable. And I was perfectly fine letting him stew in it.

The next morning, something strange happened.

Billy’s alarm went off earlier than usual. Instead of hitting snooze five times, he actually got up.

He got dressed quickly and left without a word.

I didn’t ask where he was going. I just waited.

That evening, I heard it before I saw it—the unmistakable sound of a large box being dragged through the doorway.

A brand-new washing machine.

Billy didn’t say anything. He just set it up, checking the hoses, adjusting the settings. No complaints. No excuses. Just quiet determination.

When he finished, he finally looked up. His voice was low. “I get it now.”

I watched him for a moment, then nodded.

“Good.”

And just like that, the lesson was learned.