Six months after giving birth, I was drowning in baby laundry, exhausted beyond words, and barely holding myself together. So when our washing machine broke down, I thought my husband, Billy, would understand how big of a problem this was. But instead of helping, he just shrugged and said, “Just wash everything by hand. People did it for centuries.”
I never imagined my life would revolve so much around laundry.
Since our baby was born, my days had become a never-ending cycle of feeding, changing diapers, cooking, cleaning, and—above all—washing clothes. Babies go through more outfits in a day than an entire football team. Spit-ups, diaper leaks, food spills—it never stopped.
On a good day, I washed at least eight pounds of tiny onesies, burp cloths, blankets, and bibs. On bad days? I didn’t even want to count.
So when the washing machine broke, I felt my heart drop.
I had just pulled out a heavy, soaking pile of clothes when the machine sputtered, made a sad grinding noise, and stopped. I pressed buttons. Nothing. Unplugged it, plugged it back in. Nothing.
Panic set in.
As soon as Billy got home from work, I rushed to tell him. “The washing machine is dead,” I said, still standing over the pile of wet clothes. “We need a new one.”
Billy barely looked up from his phone. “Huh?”
“The washing machine broke. We need to replace it. Soon.”
He nodded absently, kicked off his shoes, and kept scrolling. “Yeah. Not this month.”
I frowned. “What?”
“Not this month,” he repeated. “Maybe next month when I get paid. Three weeks.”
My stomach twisted. “Billy, I can’t go three weeks without a washing machine. The baby’s clothes need to be cleaned properly every day.”
Billy let out a long sigh, as if I had just asked for a private jet. He put his phone down and stretched his arms over his head. “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?
I clenched my jaw. Billy’s mom 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.
“Billy, your mom doesn’t babysit. She comes over, eats, naps, and goes home.”
His face twisted in mild offense. “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.”
I let out a bitter 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. Wash everything by hand. Like I wasn’t already drowning in work, exhausted, aching, and running on three hours of sleep a night.
I wanted to scream, to shake him, to make him see how unfair this was. But I knew Billy. Arguing wouldn’t change his mind.
Fine. If he wanted me to wash everything by hand, then that’s exactly what I’d do.
At first, it wasn’t too 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 there were still 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. Never looked at my hands, red and cracked from hours of scrubbing.
One night, after washing another pile of clothes, I collapsed onto the couch next to him and winced as I rubbed 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. But 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, looking like he wanted to yell, but for once, he had no comeback.
“Go on, Billy. Tell me how this is different.”
His jaw tightened. “Shirley, this is—this is just childish.”
I laughed sharply. “Oh, I see. So your suffering is real, but mine is just me being childish?”
He threw his hands in the air. “You could have just talked to me!”
I stepped forward, fire burning in my chest. “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!”
Silence. Then, finally, he muttered, “I get it.”
“Do you?”
He sighed. “Yeah. I do.”
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, plugging in hoses, checking the settings. No complaints. No excuses. Just quiet determination.
When he finished, he finally looked up, his voice low. “I get it now.”
I watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”
Because if he ever put his mother’s vacation over my basic needs again, he’d better learn how to start a fire with those rocks.
