Six months postpartum, overwhelmed with baby laundry and exhaustion, I assumed my husband would understand when our washing machine broke. Instead, he barely looked up from his phone and shrugged.

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

That was the moment I realized something had to change.

Before having a baby, I never imagined how much laundry one tiny human could generate. Every day felt like an endless cycle of feeding, cleaning, rocking a fussy infant to sleep—and washing. Piles of onesies, burp cloths, blankets, and bibs filled our laundry basket faster than I could keep up.

So when the washing machine sputtered, let out a sad, grinding noise, and stopped mid-cycle, I panicked. I pressed buttons, unplugged and replugged it, but nothing worked.

When Billy got home, I wasted no time.

“The washing machine is dead,” I announced the second he stepped through the door.

“Huh?” He barely looked up from his phone.

“We need a new one. Soon.”

Billy sighed like I was asking for something ridiculous. “Not this month.”

I blinked. “What?”

“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 shattered my world. “She’s been babysitting for us. I thought it’d be nice to do something for her.”

Babysitting? His mother came over once a month, 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, your mom doesn’t babysit. When was the last time she even 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, rubbing 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. But I knew arguing wouldn’t change his mind.

So I exhaled, clenched my jaw, and said, “Fine.”

The first load wasn’t so bad. I filled the bathtub with soapy water and started scrubbing. My arms ached, but I told myself it was temporary.

By the third load, my back screamed in protest. My fingers were raw. I still had towels, bedsheets, and Billy’s work clothes to wash. My hands cracked from the soap. My shoulders stiffened. Billy didn’t notice.

He came home, kicked off his shoes, ate the dinner I cooked, and stretched out on the couch.

One night, after another grueling day, I collapsed onto the couch next to him, wincing 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 snapped inside me.

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.

At exactly 12:30 PM, Billy stormed through the front door, red-faced and furious.

“What the hell have you done?!” 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 aloud.

“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.

“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?”

“You could have just talked to me!” he snapped.

I stepped forward, my voice deadly calm. “Talked to you? I did, Billy. I told you I was exhausted. And you shrugged and told me to do it by hand. Like I was some woman from the 1800s.”

Billy looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You thought I’d just take it, huh?” I continued. “That I’d scrub and break my back while you sat on that couch every night without a care in the world?”

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.”

That evening, Billy barely touched his dinner. The next morning, something strange happened.

Billy’s alarm went off earlier than usual. 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, checking the hoses, adjusting 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.”