The Broken Broom: A Reminder
When our vacuum broke, my husband said, “Just sweep. You’re home all day anyway.” So I grabbed our newborn, picked up a broken broom, and took a little trip—to his office. Just to remind him what “home all day” really looks like.
I’m 30 years old and just had my first baby—our sweet little girl, Lila. She’s 9 weeks old, and yes, she’s beautiful. But she’s also loud. Screams like a fire alarm. Hates naps. Hates being put down. Basically glued to my arms 24/7.
I’m on unpaid maternity leave. Sounds relaxing, right? Not even close. It’s a full-time job, with no breaks, no money, and definitely no appreciation.
I take care of everything—the baby, the laundry, meals, and our two cats who shed like they’re trying to carpet the entire house. It’s just me and Lila most days, and everything that needs doing falls on me.
My husband, Mason, is 34. He works in finance. He used to be so sweet when I was pregnant—making tea, rubbing my feet. Now? I hand him the baby and he says, “She’s fussy,” then gives her back five seconds later like it’s a hot potato.
Last week, the vacuum finally died. With two cats and light carpet, that’s basically an emergency.
I told him while he was playing Xbox, “Hey, the vacuum died. I found a good one on sale. Can you grab it this week?”
He didn’t even look at me. Just paused his game and said, “Why? Just use a broom.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
He nodded, still looking at the TV. “Yeah. My mom didn’t have a vacuum when we were kids. She raised five of us with a broom. You’ve got one. And you’re home all day.”
I stared at him, stunned.
“You’re not joking?”
“Nope,” he said with a smirk. “She didn’t complain. Women were tougher back then.”
I let out this strange laugh—half shock, half fury.
“Did your mom also have a newborn screaming in her arms while sweeping?”
He shrugged. “Probably. She got it done.”
I tried to stay calm. “You know Lila’s going to be crawling soon, right? Her face will be in this filthy carpet.”
Another shrug. “The place isn’t that bad.”
Then came the cherry on top.
“Anyway,” he said, “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?” I asked, already knowing I wasn’t going to like the answer.
“The boat weekend. I told you. I need the break. I’m the one bringing in income right now. It’s exhausting.”
I didn’t say anything. Not, “You haven’t changed a diaper in days,” or “You nap while I’m pumping at 3 a.m.,” or “You think spit-up laundry is a vacation?”
I just nodded.
That night, after I finally got Lila to sleep on my chest, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just sat in the dark hallway, looking at the broken vacuum, then at the broom.
Then I stood up, took that broom, and snapped it clean in half.
The next morning, while Mason was at work, I texted him:
Me: “Busy day at the office?”
Mason: “Yeah. Back-to-backs. Why?”
Me: “Oh. No reason. I’m just on my way.”
I packed Lila in the car, still screaming from her morning meltdown. She’d had a diaper blowout halfway there and was letting the whole world know about it.
Perfect.
I wiped spit-up off my shirt, threw a burp cloth over my shoulder, grabbed the broken broom, and unbuckled the baby.
“Alright, Lila,” I said. “Let’s go say hi to Daddy.”
His office was sleek and cold—glass walls, shiny floors, fake smiles. I walked in with a furious baby in one arm and broken broom pieces in the other.
The receptionist blinked twice when she saw us.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Mason Carter’s wife,” I said with a sweet smile. “He forgot something at home.”
“Oh… okay. He’s in a meeting, but you can go back.”
I didn’t wait. I marched straight back like I owned the place. Lila started wailing again just as I walked into the conference room.
There he was—Mason—sitting at a glass table with four coworkers, laughing at something on a spreadsheet like he didn’t have a wife losing her mind at home.
He looked up and froze. His face turned pale.
“Babe—what are you doing here?” he asked, jumping to his feet.
I walked right in and laid the two broom halves gently on the table in front of him.
“Honey,” I said sweetly, shifting Lila on my hip, “I tried using the broom like your mom did with her five kids. But it broke. Again.”
The room went dead silent. One guy stared hard at his laptop like it had just become the Mona Lisa.
I looked around and smiled.
“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 was going to pass out. His eyes darted around the room.
“Can we talk outside?” he whispered, his voice tight.
“Of course,” I said cheerfully.
He dragged me out and shut the door behind us so hard the glass rattled.
“What the hell was that?” he snapped.
“That,” I said calmly, “was me being resourceful. Like your mom.”
“You embarrassed me! That was a client pitch—my boss was in there!”
I tilted my head. “Oh, sorry. I thought this was just housewife stuff. What’s the big deal?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. I get it. I messed up. I’ll get the vacuum today.”
“No need,” I said, “I already ordered one. With your card.”
I turned and walked out, baby crying, broom handle under my arm like a flag in a battle I just won.
That night, Mason came home… different. Quiet. No stomping in, no tossing his keys. Didn’t even look at the Xbox.
I was feeding Lila on the couch. The room was dim and peaceful, except for the white noise humming softly.
He sat across from me, hands folded in his lap like he was in trouble.
“I talked to HR today,” he said quietly.
I looked up. “HR?”
He nodded, still staring at the floor. “Yeah. Told them things were… rough at home. Stress. Sleep issues.”
“So you told your job your wife showed up with a broom because she’s exhausted and vacuum-less?”
“That’s not how I said it,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to be such a jerk. I’ve just been… tired.”
I let the silence stretch a little.
Then I said, calm and clear, “Mason, you’re either a husband and a father, or just a roommate with guilt. Pick one.”
He opened his mouth to argue—but didn’t. Just nodded.
The next morning, the yacht trip got mysteriously “rescheduled.” I didn’t ask.
That week, Mason vacuumed every rug in the house. Twice. Like it was personal. He didn’t say a word about it.
He changed diapers. Took the 3 a.m. bottle shift—even when Lila screamed at him like he was a stranger. He paced and rocked her until she passed out on his shoulder.
On Sunday, he even took her for a walk so I could nap. Left me a sticky note on the bathroom mirror:
“Sleep. I’ve got her.”
I didn’t gloat. Didn’t mention the office. Didn’t bring up the yacht.
But that broken broom? Still sitting in the hallway.
Just in case he forgets.
