Six months postpartum, drowning in baby laundry, and our washing machine d-ies.

I tell my husband, Billy, we need a new one ASAP.

His response? “Not this month. I’m paying for my mom’s vacation. You can wash everything by hand. People used to do that for centuries, and NOBODY d-ied of it!”

Excuse me?!

For two and a half weeks, I scrubbed clothes until my fingers bled, all while taking care of a newborn and running the house.

By week 3, I’d had enough, so I decided to teach him a lesson.
That morning I packed his lunch as usual. Instead of the big, hearty meal he expected, I filled his lunchbox with stones. Right on top, I put a folded note.

For illustrative purpose only.
After that I kissed his cheek and sent him off to work.

And I waited.

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

“What the hell have you done?!” he shouted, slamming his lunchbox onto the counter.

I wiped my hands on a towel. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

He flipped open the lid. 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 because of 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?”

For illustrative purpose only.
Bill looked like he wanted to yell, but for once, he didn’t have a comeback.

“Go on, Billy. Tell me how this is different.”

His jaw tightened. “Shirley, this is—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?”

He threw his hands in the air. “You could have just talked to me!”

“Talked to you? I did, Billy. I told you I couldn’t go three weeks without a washing machine. 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!”

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

Billy looked away.

I shook my head. “I’m not a servant, Billy. And I’m sure as hell not your mother.”

Finally, he muttered, “I get it.”

“Do you?” I asked.

He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. I do.”

I turned back to the sink. “Good,” I said, rinsing off my hands. “Because I meant it, Billy. If you ever put your mother’s vacation over my basic needs again, you’d better learn how to start a fire with those rocks.”

Billy sulked for the rest of the evening.

He didn’t turn on the TV. He sat on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it had personally betrayed him. He barely touched his dinner. Every now and then, he sighed loudly, like I was supposed to feel bad for him.

I didn’t. I was perfectly fine letting him stew in it.

The next morning, Billy got dressed quickly and left without a word.

I didn’t ask where he was going.

That evening, when he came home, I saw a brand-new washing machine.

For illustrative purpose only.
Billy just set it up, plugging in hoses, checking the settings. No excuses. No complaints.

As he finished, he finally looked up. His face was sheepish.

“I get it now.”

I nodded. “Good.”

“I, uh… should’ve listened to you sooner.”

“Yeah,” I said, crossing my arms. “You should have.”

He grabbed his phone and walked away without argument or justification. Just acceptance. And honestly? For me, that was enough.