Six months postpartum, drowning in baby laundry and exhausted beyond words, I thought my husband would understand when our washing machine broke down. But instead of helping me, he said, “Wash everything by hand—people have been doing it for centuries.”
I never thought I would spend so much time doing laundry.
A tired woman on a chair | Source: Pexels
Six months ago, I gave birth to our first baby. Since then, my life has become a never-ending cycle of feeding, changing diapers, cleaning, cooking, and laundry. Lots of laundry. Babies use more clothes in a day than an entire football team.
On a good day, I washed at least two kilos of tiny onesies, bath towels, blankets, and bibs. On a bad day? Let’s just say I stopped counting.
A woman doing laundry | Source: Pexels
So when the washing machine broke down, I knew I was in trouble.
I had just pulled out a pile of soaked clothes when it sputtered, made a sad squeaking noise, and shut off. I pressed buttons. Did nothing. I unplugged it, plugged it back in. Nothing.
My heart sank.
When Billy came home from work, I wasted no time.
A tired and perplexed woman | Source: Pexels
“The washing machine is broken,” I said as soon as he walked through the door. “We need a new one.”
Billy barely looked up from his phone. “Huh?”
“I said the washing machine was broken. We need to replace it. Soon.”
He nodded absently, kicked off his shoes, and scrolled down. “Yeah. Not this month.”
A man on his phone in his living room | Source: Pexels
I blinked. “What?”
“Not this month,” he repeated. “Maybe next month, when I get my salary.”
“Billy, I can’t go three weeks without a washing machine. The baby’s clothes need to be cleaned properly every day.”
A couple having a serious discussion | Source: Pexels
Billy sighed as if I were asking something unreasonable. He put down his phone and stretched his arms above his head. “Look, I already promised to pay for my mom’s vacation this month. She really deserves it.”
I stared at him. “Your mother’s vacation?”
“Yes. She babysat for us. I thought it would be nice to do something for her.”
Babysitting?
A shocked woman | Source: Pexels
I swallowed hard. His mother came over once a month. She would sit on the couch, watch TV, eat the dinner I’d made, and take a nap while the baby slept. This wasn’t babysitting. This was visiting.
Billy continued talking as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on me. “She said she needed a break, so I thought I’d cover her trip. It’s just for a few days.”
A man talking to his wife in his kitchen | Source: Pexels
I cross my arms. “Billy, your mother doesn’t babysit. She comes, eats, naps, and goes home.”
He frowned. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, really? When was the last time she had a diaper changed?”
Billy opened his mouth, then closed it. “That’s not the point.”
I let out a high-pitched laugh. “Oh, I think so.”
A couple arguing in their kitchen | Source: Pexels
He groaned, rubbing his face. “Look, can’t you just hand wash everything right now? People have been doing that for centuries. No one has died from it.”
I stared at him, feeling my blood boil. Washing everything by hand. As if I wasn’t already drowning in work, exhausted, sore, and only getting three hours of sleep a night.
An angry woman clutching her head | Source: Pexels
I breathed slowly and deeply, my hands balling into fists. I wanted to scream, yell, make him understand how unfair this was. But I knew Billy. Arguing wouldn’t change his mind.
I exhaled and looked at the pile of dirty clothes stacked by the door. Fine. If he wanted me to wash everything by hand, that’s exactly what I would do.
The first load wasn’t so bad.
A pile of clothes | Source: Pexels
I filled the bathtub with soapy water, added the baby’s clothes, and started scrubbing. My arms were aching, but I told myself it was temporary. It would only last a few weeks.
By the third pass, my back was screaming. My fingers were raw. And I still had towels, sheets, and Billy’s work clothes waiting for me.
A tired woman sitting by a bathtub | Source: Midjourney
Every day was the same. Wake up, feed the baby, clean, cook, do the laundry by hand, wring it out, hang it up. By the time I was done, my hands were swollen, my shoulders stiff, and my body exhausted.
Billy didn’t notice.
A bored man on a couch | Source: Pexels
He came home, took off his shoes, ate the dinner I’d made, and lay down on the couch. I could barely hold a spoon, but he never asked if I needed help. He never looked at my hands, red and cracked from hours of scrubbing.
One evening, after finishing another pile of laundry, I collapsed on the couch next to him. I grimaced as I rubbed my aching fingers.
Billy glanced at me. “What’s wrong?”
A tired woman on her sofa | Source: Pexels
I stared at him. “What’s wrong with me?”
He shrugged. “You look tired.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “I wonder why.”
He didn’t even flinch. He just turned back to the television. That’s when something inside me snapped.
An annoyed woman in her kitchen | Source: Pexels
Billy wasn’t going to understand—unless he felt the inconvenience himself. If he wanted me to live like a 19th-century housewife, fine. He could live like a caveman.
So I planned my revenge.
The next morning, I prepared his lunch as usual. Except instead of the hearty meal he expected, I filled his lunchbox with rocks. Right on top, I placed a folded note.
A lunch box filled with stones | Source: Midjourney
Then I kissed his cheek and sent him to work.
And I waited.
At exactly 12:30, Billy burst through the front door, red-faced and furious.
“What did you do?” he shouted, slamming his lunch box on the counter.
I turned away from the sink, wiping my hands on a towel. “What do you mean, darling?”
A woman laughing in her kitchen | Source: Midjourney
He opened the lid, revealing the pile of pebbles. He grabbed the note and read it aloud.
“Men used to go and get food for their families themselves. Go hunt for your meal, make a fire with stones, and fry it.”
His face twisted with rage. “Are you out of your mind, Shirley? I had to open this in front of my colleagues!”
I cross my arms. “Oh, so public humiliation is wrong when it happens to you?”
A man shouting and wearing glasses | Source: Pexels
Billy clenched his jaw. He looked like he was going to scream, but for once, he had no answer.
I crossed my arms and tilted my head. “Go on, Billy. Tell me how it’s different.”
His jaw tightened. “Shirley, this is… this is just childish.”
I let out a high-pitched laugh. “Oh, I see. So your suffering is real, but mine is just me being childish?”
An angry woman lecturing her husband | Source: Pexels
He threw his hands in the air. “You could have talked to me!”
I took a step forward, fire burning in my chest. “Talk to you? I told you, Billy. I told you I couldn’t go three weeks without a washing machine. I told you I was exhausted. And you shrugged and told me to do it by hand. Like I was a woman from the 1800s!”
A woman turning away from her husband | Source: Pexels
His nostrils flared, but I could see the small flicker of guilt creeping into him. He knew I was right.
I pointed to his lunchbox. “You thought I was going to take it, huh? That I’d wash, scrub, and break my back while you sat on that couch every night and didn’t care about a thing?”
Billy looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.
A sad man clutching his head | Source: Pexels
I shake my head. “I’m not a servant, Billy. And I’m certainly not your mother.”
Silence. Then, finally, he mumbled, “I get it.”
“Really?” I asked.
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Yes. I understand.”
A tired man rubbing his temples | Source: Pexels
I stared at him for a long moment, letting his words sink in. Then I turned back to the sink. “Good,” I said, rinsing my hands. “Because I mean it, Billy. If you’re putting your mom’s vacation before my basic needs again, you’d better learn how to start a fire with these rocks.”
Billy sulked for the rest of the evening.
An angry man with a hoodie | Source: Pexels
He barely touched his dinner. He didn’t turn on the television. He sat on the couch with his arms crossed, staring at the wall as if he’d personally betrayed it. Every now and then, he sighed loudly, as if I was supposed to feel bad for him.
It wasn’t.
For once, he was the one who was uncomfortable. He was the one who had to sit with the weight of his own choices. And I was perfectly okay with letting him stew.
A woman reading a book on a sofa | Source: Pexels
The next morning, something strange happened.
Billy’s alarm went off earlier than usual. Instead of hitting snooze five times, he got up. He dressed quickly and left without a word.
I didn’t ask him where he was going. I just waited.
That evening, when he came home, I heard it before I saw it—the unmistakable sound of a large box being dragged through the doorway.
A large box in the doorway | Source: Midjourney
I turned around and there it was. A brand new washing machine.
Billy didn’t say anything. He just set it up, connected the hoses, and checked the settings. No complaints. No excuses. Just quiet determination.
When he finished, he finally looked up. His face was sheepish, his voice low.
“I understand now.”
A sorry man covering his face | Source: Pexels
I looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… should have listened to you sooner.”
“Yes,” I said, crossing my arms. “You should have.”
He swallowed, nodded again, then grabbed his phone and walked away without argument or justification. Just acceptance. And honestly? That was enough.
A smiling and satisfied woman | Source: Pexels
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This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the story. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims regarding the accuracy of events or character portrayals and are not responsible for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and all opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the opinions of the author or publisher.
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