Six months postpartum, drowning in endless piles of baby laundry and running on fumes, I assumed my husband would understand when our washing machine broke down. Instead, he barely looked up from his phone, shrugged, and said,

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

That was the moment I knew something had to change.

The Overwhelming Pile of Laundry

Before having a baby, I never realized how much laundry one tiny human could generate. Every day was a never-ending cycle of feeding, cleaning, soothing a fussy infant—and doing laundry. So much laundry.

On a good day, I washed eight pounds of tiny onesies, burp cloths, blankets, and bibs. On a bad day? I lost count.

So when the washing machine sputtered, groaned, and died mid-cycle, I felt a sinking panic in my chest. I pressed buttons, unplugged it, plugged it back in. Nothing.

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

“The washing machine is broken,” I told him as soon as he stepped inside.

He barely glanced at me. “Huh?”

“We need a new one. Soon.”

Billy sighed like I was being unreasonable. “Not this month.”

I frowned. “Why?”

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

I stared at him. His mom’s vacation?

Billy kept talking like he hadn’t just blindsided me. “She’s been babysitting for us. I figured this would be a nice way to thank her.”

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

“Billy, your mom doesn’t babysit. When was the last time she even changed a diaper?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it.

“That’s not the point,” he muttered.

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

He groaned. “Look, can’t you just wash everything by hand for now? People did that for centuries. No one died from it.”

I felt my blood boil. Wash everything by hand? Like I wasn’t already drowning in exhaustion, aching 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.”

Reaching My Breaking Point

The first load wasn’t too bad.

I filled the bathtub with soapy water and started scrubbing. 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 by hand, 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 made, 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 didn’t even flinch. Just turned back to the TV.

Something inside me snapped.

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

So I came up with a plan.

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 hunt for food themselves. Go start a fire and cook.”

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.

“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?”

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. “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, checked the hoses, adjusted 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.