Six months after having my baby, I was drowning. Not in water, but in baby clothes. Tiny socks, onesies, burp cloths—mountains of laundry piled up every day. I was exhausted, surviving on three hours of sleep, and barely holding it together. So when the washing machine broke, I thought my husband, Billy, would understand.
He didn’t.
Instead, he shrugged and said, “Just wash everything by hand—people did it for centuries.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to say he was joking. He wasn’t.
I never imagined my life would revolve around laundry, but here I was. Six months into motherhood, and my days were an endless cycle of feeding, changing diapers, cooking, cleaning, and, most of all, washing clothes. Babies go through more outfits in a day than a fashion model at a runway show.
On a good day, I washed at least eight pounds of baby clothes, blankets, and bibs. On a bad day? I stopped counting.
So when I pulled a soaking pile of clothes from the washer and heard a horrible grinding noise before it died completely, my heart sank.
I pressed the buttons. Nothing.
I unplugged it and plugged it back in. Nothing.
It was dead.
When Billy got home, I wasted no time.
“The washing machine is broken,” I said the second he walked through the door. “We need a new one.”
Billy barely looked up from his phone. “Huh?”
“The washing machine. It’s dead. We need to replace it. Soon.”
He kicked off his shoes and scrolled through his phone like I wasn’t standing right there. “Yeah. Not this month.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Not this month,” he repeated. “Maybe next month when I get my salary. Three weeks.”
I felt my stomach twist. “Billy, I can’t go three weeks without a washing machine. The baby’s clothes need to be cleaned properly every day.”
Billy sighed like I was asking for a five-star vacation. “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?
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.
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,” he muttered.
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. He really thought it was that simple. Like I wasn’t already drowning in work. Like I wasn’t exhausted to my bones.
I wanted to scream. But I knew Billy. Arguing wouldn’t change his mind.
Fine. If he wanted me to wash everything by hand, 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 pile of clothes, I collapsed onto the couch next to him, rubbing 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 snapped inside me.
Billy wasn’t going to understand—not unless he felt the inconvenience himself. If he wanted me to live like a 19th-century housewife, then fine. He could live like a caveman.
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 is this?!” 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, his nostrils flaring. He looked like he wanted to yell, but for once, he had nothing to say.
“Go on, Billy. Tell me how this is different.”
Silence.
Finally, he muttered, “I get it.”
“Do you?”
He sighed. “Yeah. I do.”
The next morning, 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.
That evening, I heard it before I saw it—the unmistakable sound of a large box being dragged through the doorway.
I turned around and there it was. 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 face was sheepish, his voice 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.”
Billy didn’t argue. He just nodded and walked away.
And honestly? That was enough.
