When our vacuum broke, my husband told me to just sweep the floors instead. “You’re home all day anyway,” he said. So the next day, I grabbed our newborn, a broken broom, and headed straight to his office—to remind him what being “home all day” really looks like.
I’m 30 years old and just had my first baby, a little girl named Lila. She’s 9 weeks old—and yes, she’s absolutely perfect. But also? She’s wild. She screams like she’s auditioning for a horror movie. She fights naps like they’re the enemy. And putting her down? Not happening. She wants to be held constantly.
I’m on unpaid maternity leave. That might sound relaxing, but in reality, it means I’m working nonstop—around the clock, no breaks, no pay, and no one helping me.
On top of that, I take care of everything else—laundry, cooking, cleaning, and the two litter boxes. Yep, we’ve got two cats, and they shed like it’s their only mission in life. Our beige carpet is basically a fur magnet.
My husband, Mason, is 34 and works in finance. He used to be kind and thoughtful. When I was pregnant, he brought me tea and rubbed my feet every night. But now? He barely notices me. I’m the woman who hands him his child so he can say, “She’s fussy,” and then gives her right back after five seconds.
Last week, our vacuum finally died. And in a house with two cats and light-colored carpet, that’s a full-blown emergency.
“Hey,” I said while he was playing Xbox, “the vacuum’s totally dead. I found a decent one on sale—can you grab it this week?”
He didn’t even glance at me. Just paused his game and said, “Why? Just use a broom.”
I stared at him. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “Yeah. My mom didn’t have a vacuum when I was a kid. She raised five of us with just a broom. You’ve got one. And you’re home all day.”
I just stood there, blinking.
“You’re not kidding,” I said.
“Nope,” he replied, smirking. “She didn’t complain.”
I laughed, but it came out all wrong—half choking, half heartbroken.
“Did your mom also have a screaming baby in one arm while sweeping with the other?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Probably. Women were tougher back then.”
I took a deep breath, trying not to lose it.
“You know she’ll be crawling soon, right? Her face will be in this carpet.”
He shrugged again. “It’s not that bad.”
I looked around. There were literal cat-hair tumbleweeds in every corner.
Then he said the thing that really did me in: “And anyway, I don’t have extra money right now. I’m saving for the yacht trip next month. With the guys.”
“You’re saving for what?”
“The boat weekend. I told you. I need a break. I’m the one bringing in income right now. It’s exhausting.”
That was the moment I stopped talking. Because what was I even supposed to say?
You nap while I’m up pumping milk at 3 a.m.
You haven’t changed a diaper in days.
You think cleaning spit-up off clothes is relaxing?
I didn’t say any of that. I just nodded.
Apparently, raising a newborn is a relaxing vacation—and the woman doing it doesn’t even deserve a working vacuum. That night, after Lila finally passed out on my chest, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just sat alone in the hallway in the dark.
A small nightlight cast a soft glow on the baby monitor beside me. It was peaceful—for once.
I looked at the broken vacuum. Then at the broom.
I stood up. Took the broom in both hands. And snapped it in half.
The next morning, I waited until Mason left for work. Then I sent him a message.
Me: “Busy day at the office?”
Mason: “Yeah. Back-to-backs. Why?”
Me: “Oh. No reason. I’m just on my way.”
I packed up Lila, still red-faced from her morning meltdown, and tossed the two broken pieces of the broom into the car.
I drove straight to his office.
Lila cried the entire way—like I’d strapped her into a rocket ship instead of her car seat. She had a diaper blowout mid-drive and let me know how mad she was about it.
Perfect.
I pulled into the parking lot, wiped spit-up off my shirt, slung a burp cloth over my shoulder, and grabbed the jagged broom handle. Then I unbuckled the baby.
“Alright, Lila,” I whispered. “Let’s go say hi to Daddy.”
His office building was one of those sleek, all-glass-and-steel places. Everyone inside looked polished and calm.
I walked in carrying a screaming baby in one arm and half a broom in the other.
The receptionist blinked at me like she was trying to figure out if I was real.
“Hi, can I help—?”
“I’m Mason Carter’s wife,” I said with a big smile. “He left something very important at home.”
“Oh. Um. He’s in a meeting, but… you can go back.”
“Thanks!” I said cheerfully, already walking past her.
Lila’s wails echoed down the hallway as I turned the corner into the conference room. And there he was—Mason—laughing with four coworkers, probably about some spreadsheet that didn’t scream at 2 a.m.
He looked up—and instantly turned white.
“Babe—what are you doing here?” he said, jumping up.
I walked in calmly and laid the two snapped broom pieces on the table in front of him.
“Honey,” I said, shifting Lila on my hip, “I tried using the broom like your mom did. But it broke. Again.”
The whole room went quiet. Someone coughed. One guy suddenly became fascinated by his laptop.
I smiled and looked around.
“So,” I continued, “should I keep sweeping the carpet with my hands while holding your daughter? Or are you going to buy a new vacuum?”
Mason looked like he might faint. His eyes jumped between me, the broom, and his stunned coworkers. His mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again.
“Can we talk outside?” he whispered, already standing.
“Of course,” I said sweetly.
He practically dragged me out of the room and shut the glass door hard behind us.
“What the hell was that?” he hissed. His face was bright red.
“That,” I said calmly, “was me being resourceful. Like your mom.”
“You embarrassed me! That was a client pitch! My boss was in there!”
“Oh, sorry,” I said with a shrug. “I thought this was all just housewife stuff. What’s the issue? I’m just doing what you suggested.”
He groaned and rubbed his face. “Okay, okay—I get it. I messed up. I’ll pick up the vacuum today.”
“No need,” I said. “I already ordered one. With your card.”
Then I turned and walked out—baby still screaming, broom handle still under my arm.
That night, Mason came home quiet. No slamming his shoes. No throwing his keys on the counter. He didn’t even glance at the Xbox.
I was on the couch, feeding Lila under the soft glow of a lamp. The only other sound was the white noise machine humming in the corner.
He sat down across from me, looking like a kid in trouble.
“I talked to HR today,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “HR?”
“Yeah,” he mumbled, staring at the floor. “Told them we’re dealing with stress at home. No sleep. Some tension. I… I didn’t handle things well.”
I looked at him carefully. “So, you told them your wife embarrassed you because she’s tired and doesn’t have a vacuum?”
“No!” he said quickly. “I mean—not like that. I just… I didn’t mean to be so dismissive. I’ve got stuff going on too.”
I let a long pause hang in the air. Lila made a soft snore.
Still calm, I said, “Mason, you’re either a husband and a father, or you’re just a roommate with a guilt complex. You decide.”
He didn’t argue. He just nodded—slowly, like he’d just tasted something sour.
The next morning, the yacht trip was “postponed.” He claimed the guys were rescheduling. I didn’t bother asking. Pretty sure “the guys” didn’t even know about it.
That week, he vacuumed every rug in the house. Twice. He looked like he was fighting in a war against dust.
He changed three diapers—without being asked. He even took the 3 a.m. shift two nights in a row, walking up and down the hallway as Lila screamed in his ear.
And on Sunday morning? He took her for a walk so I could nap. He left a sticky note on the bathroom mirror that said:
“Sleep. I’ve got her.”
I didn’t gloat. Didn’t say, told you so. Didn’t even mention the office.
But the broken broom? It’s still sitting in the hallway. Right where I left it.
Just in case he forgets.
