When our vacuum cleaner broke, my husband told me I should just sweep—because I’m “home all day anyway.” So I grabbed our newborn baby and a broken broom and showed up at his office to remind him what being home all day really looks like.
I’m 30 years old. I just had my first baby—a sweet little girl named Lila. She’s 9 weeks old, and yes, she’s perfect. But let me tell you something: she’s also pure chaos. She cries like she’s auditioning for a horror movie. She hates naps. She hates being put down. She basically lives in my arms 24/7.
I’m on maternity leave. Unpaid maternity leave. Sounds relaxing, right? Nope. It’s like working the longest shift of your life—with no help, no breaks, and no paycheck. I’m taking care of the baby, cooking, doing laundry, cleaning the house, and even changing litter boxes for our two fluffy cats, who seem to shed more fur than they grow.
My husband Mason is 34. He works in finance. He used to be so sweet when I was pregnant—making me tea, rubbing my feet, checking in on me. But now? Now he treats me like I’m just… there. Like I’m the lady who holds the baby so he can say, “She’s fussy,” and hand her back after five seconds.
Last week, our vacuum gave up and died. And with beige carpet and two cats? That’s like the oxygen tank running out in space.
So I said, “Hey,” while he was glued to his Xbox, “the vacuum’s dead. I found a good one on sale—can you pick it up this week?”
He didn’t even look at me. Just paused his game and said, “Why? Just use a broom.”
I stared at him. “Seriously?”
He nodded, still not looking up. “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 blinked like I’d just been slapped with a cat.
“You’re not joking,” I said.
“Nope.” He even smirked. “She didn’t complain.”
I laughed, but it wasn’t the funny kind. It was the kind where you might cry right after.
“Did your mom also carry a screaming baby around while sweeping with one hand?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Probably. Women were tougher back then.”
I swallowed the scream rising in my throat.
“You do realize the baby’s going to crawl soon, right? Her face will literally be in this carpet.”
Again, he shrugged. “It’s not that bad.”
I looked around. There were fluffy cat hairballs rolling across the floor like tumbleweeds in a ghost town.
“And anyway,” he added, like it was no big deal, “I don’t have spare money right now. I’m saving for the yacht trip next month. With the guys.”
I froze. “You’re saving for what?”
“The boat weekend. I told you. I need a break. I’m the one making money right now. It’s exhausting.”
That’s when I stopped talking. Because if I didn’t, I might scream.
I wanted to say: “You haven’t changed a diaper in days.” “You nap while I pump milk at 3 a.m.” “You think scrubbing spit-up off baby clothes is some kind of spa treatment?” But I said none of that. I just nodded.
Apparently, taking care of a newborn is a vacation now. And the woman doing it doesn’t deserve a working vacuum. That night, once Lila finally fell asleep on my chest, I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I just sat in the hallway, staring at the nightlight glowing on the baby monitor.
It was too quiet.
I looked at the broken vacuum. Then at the broom. I stood up. Took the broom in both hands.
SNAP.
I broke it clean in two.
The next morning, while Mason was at work, I texted him:
Me: “Busy day at the office?”
Mason: “Yeah. Back-to-back meetings. Why?”
Me: “Oh, no reason. I’m just on my way.”
I packed up Lila—still red-faced and crying from her latest meltdown—and tossed the broken broom into the backseat.
Then I drove.
I pulled into his office parking lot with Lila still screaming like I’d strapped her into a rocket ship. Her diaper had exploded during the ride, and she was not shy about telling me how she felt. Perfect.
I wiped spit-up off my shirt, tossed a burp cloth over my shoulder, grabbed the two halves of the broken broom, and unbuckled my furious baby.
“Alright, Lila,” I muttered, “let’s go say hi to Daddy.”
His office building was one of those fancy ones—all glass and fake smiles. I walked in holding a broom in one hand and a red-faced, wailing baby in the other.
The receptionist blinked. Twice.
“Can I help—?”
“I’m Mason Carter’s wife,” I said with a huge smile. “He left something important at home.”
“Oh. Um… okay. He’s in a meeting, but… you can go back.”
I walked past her like I owned the place.
As I turned the corner to the conference room, Lila let out a fresh scream. I pushed the door open like I belonged there.
There he was. Mason. Sitting at a long table with four coworkers, laughing over a spreadsheet like he wasn’t married to someone slowly losing her mind at home.
He looked up.
His face went white.
“Babe—what are you doing here?” he stammered, standing up so fast his chair nearly fell over.
I walked in, calm as ever, and placed the two broken broom pieces on the table in front of him.
“Honey,” I said sweetly, shifting Lila on my hip, “I tried sweeping like your mom did with her five kids. But it broke. Again.”
Silence. Someone coughed. One guy stared at his laptop like it held the secrets of the universe.
I looked around at the room.
“So,” I said brightly, “should I keep cleaning the carpet with my hands while holding your daughter, or are you going to buy a new vacuum?”
Mason looked like he might actually faint. His eyes bounced between me, the broom, and his coworkers. He opened and closed his mouth like he couldn’t decide what disaster to fix first.
“Can we talk outside?” he hissed.
“Of course,” I said with a smile.
He yanked the door shut behind us so hard the glass shook.
“What the hell was that?” he snapped. His face was red now—no more Mr. Corporate Cool.
“That was me being resourceful,” I said. “Just like your mom.”
“You embarrassed me! That was a client meeting! My boss was in there!”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, tilting my head. “I thought this was all just part of my job. Housewife stuff. What’s the issue? I’m doing what you said.”
He rubbed his face, frustrated. “Okay, okay—I get it. I screwed up. I’ll get the vacuum today.”
“No need,” I said, turning on my heel. “I already ordered one. With your card.”
And I walked out—with a wailing baby and half a broom still under my arm.
That night, Mason came home… quiet. No throwing his shoes in the hall. No tossing keys on the counter. Not a single glance at the Xbox.
I was on the couch, feeding Lila in the soft glow of the floor lamp. The white noise machine hummed quietly in the corner. He sat across from me, hands folded like a kid waiting to get in trouble.
“I talked to HR today,” he mumbled.
I looked up slowly. “HR?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I told them we’re going through… an adjustment. Stress at home. Lack of sleep.”
I blinked. “You told your job your wife crashed your meeting because she’s exhausted and doesn’t have a vacuum?”
“That’s not what I said. I just… I didn’t mean to be so dismissive. I’ve got a lot going on too.”
I didn’t yell. Didn’t raise my voice. I looked at him and said calmly, “Mason, you’re either a husband and a father… or you’re just a roommate with a guilt problem. You decide.”
He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue.
Then shut it. Nodded. Swallowed hard like the truth didn’t taste good.
The yacht trip? Canceled. He said the guys were “rescheduling.” But let’s be honest—I doubt they even knew it was planned.
That week, he vacuumed every rug in the house—twice. He looked like he was in a battle with the dust bunnies. Never said a word.
He changed three diapers without being asked. Took the 3 a.m. bottle shift two nights in a row, even when Lila screamed at him like she knew he was new at this. He walked the hallway with her until she passed out on his shoulder.
On Sunday, he took her for a walk so I could nap. Left a sticky note on the bathroom mirror that said:
“Sleep. I’ve got her.”
I didn’t gloat. Didn’t say “told you so.” Didn’t even mention the office visit again.
But that broken broom?
Still sitting in the hallway.
Just in case he forgets.
