Six months after giving birth, I was drowning in baby laundry. My life was an endless cycle of feeding, changing diapers, cooking, cleaning, and washing clothes. So many clothes. Babies went through outfits like they were running a fashion show. On a good day, I washed at least eight pounds of tiny onesies, burp cloths, blankets, and bibs. On a bad day? I didn’t even want to think about it.
So when the washing machine broke, I knew I was in trouble.
I had just pulled out a pile of soaking wet clothes when it sputtered, let out a sad grinding noise, and died. My stomach dropped. I pressed the buttons. Nothing. Unplugged it. Plugged it back in. Still nothing.
When Billy got home from work, I didn’t waste a second.
“The washing machine is dead,” I announced the moment he walked through the door. “We need a new one.”
Billy barely looked up from his phone. “Huh?”
“I said the washing machine broke. We need to replace it. Soon.”
He nodded absently, kicked off his shoes, and kept scrolling. “Yeah. Not this month.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Not this month,” he repeated. “Maybe next month when I get my salary. Three weeks.”
My stomach twisted. “Billy, I can’t go three weeks without a washing machine. The baby’s clothes need to be washed properly every day.”
Billy let out a deep sigh, like I was asking for something ridiculous. He put his phone down and stretched his arms over his head. “Look, I already promised to pay for my mom’s vacation this month. She really deserves it.”
I stared at him. “Your mom’s vacation?”
“Yeah. She’s been babysitting for us. I thought it’d be nice to do something for her.”
Babysitting?
I swallowed hard. His mother came over once a month. She 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 kept talking like he hadn’t just said something completely outrageous. “She said she needed a break, so I figured I’d cover her trip. It’s just for a few days.”
I crossed my arms. “Billy, your mom doesn’t babysit. She comes over, eats, naps, and goes home.”
He frowned. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, really? When was the last time she changed a diaper?”
Billy opened his mouth, then shut it. “That’s not the point.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, I think it is.”
He groaned and rubbed his face. “Look, can’t you just wash everything by hand for now? People used to do that for centuries. Nobody died from it.”
I stared at him, feeling my blood boil.
Wash everything by hand? Like I wasn’t already exhausted beyond words? Like I wasn’t running on three hours of sleep a night?
I took a slow, deep breath, my hands clenching into fists. Yelling wouldn’t change anything. Billy had made up his mind.
Fine. If he wanted me to wash everything by hand, then that’s exactly what I’d do.
The first load wasn’t so bad.
I filled the bathtub with soapy water, dropped in the baby’s clothes, and started scrubbing. My arms ached, but I told myself it was temporary. Just a few weeks.
By the third load, my back was screaming. My fingers were raw. And I still had towels, bedsheets, and Billy’s work clothes waiting for me.
Every day was the same. Wake up, feed the baby, clean, cook, do 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.
He came home, kicked off his shoes, ate the dinner I cooked, and stretched out on the couch. I could barely hold a spoon, but he never once asked if I needed help.
One night, after finishing another mountain of laundry, I collapsed onto the couch next to him and winced as I rubbed my aching fingers.
Billy glanced at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
I stared at him. “What’s wrong with me?”
He shrugged. “You look tired.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Gee, I wonder why.”
That was the moment something inside me snapped. If Billy wanted me to live like a 19th-century housewife, then fine. He could live like a caveman.
So I planned my revenge.
The next morning, I packed his lunch as usual. Except instead of the big, hearty meal he expected, 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 have you done?!” he shouted, slamming 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 didn’t have a comeback.
I tilted my head. “Go on, Billy. Tell me how this is different.”
His nostrils flared, but guilt flickered in his eyes. He knew I was right.
I pointed at his lunchbox. “You thought I’d just take it, huh? That I’d scrub clothes by hand while you sat on that couch every night without a care in the world?”
Billy looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.
I shook my head. “I’m not a servant, Billy. And I’m sure as hell not your mother.”
Silence. Then, finally, he muttered, “I get it.”
“Do you?” I asked.
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. I do.”
The next morning, something strange happened.
Billy’s alarm went off earlier than usual. Instead of hitting snooze, he actually got up. He got dressed quickly and left without a word.
That evening, I heard 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, plugging in hoses, checking 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.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… should’ve listened to you sooner.”
“Yeah,” I said, crossing my arms. “You should have.”
And honestly? That was enough.
