Six months postpartum, drowning in baby laundry, and utterly exhausted, I thought my husband, Billy, would understand when the washing machine broke. Instead, he shrugged. “Just wash everything by hand. People did it for centuries.”
My days were a blur of feeding, cleaning, and endless washing. Babies went through more clothes than a football team. When the washer sputtered and died, I panicked.
“We need a new one,” I told Billy when he got home.
“Not this month,” he said, scrolling his phone. “I’m paying for Mom’s vacation.”
I stared at him. His mother visited, ate, napped, and left. That wasn’t babysitting.
When I protested, he sighed. “Can’t you just wash by hand?”
Fine. I did. My hands cracked, my back ached, and Billy didn’t notice—until I packed his lunchbox with rocks. The note on top read: “Men used to hunt. Make fire, cook your meal.”
Humiliated at work, Billy fumed. But I stood my ground. Days later, he dragged in a brand-new washing machine. No excuses. Just quiet understanding.
“I get it now,” he admitted.
Finally, he did.
