Six months postpartum, buried under mountains of baby laundry and exhausted to the bone, I assumed my husband, Zed, would understand the crisis we were facing when our washing machine finally gave up. But instead of helping, he just shrugged lazily, not even looking up from his phone, and said, “Just wash everything by hand—people did it for centuries.”
I never imagined I’d spend so many hours scrubbing, wringing, and hanging clothes by hand.
Six months ago, I had given birth to our first child, Nadine. Since then, my life had transformed into a never-ending cycle: feeding her, changing diapers, scrubbing spit-up off the walls and clothes, cooking, and yes, washing. Endless washing. Babies could go through more outfits in a single day than an entire football team would in a week.
On a good day, I could get through eight pounds of tiny onesies, burp cloths, blankets, bibs, and socks. On a bad day? Let’s just say I stopped counting long ago.
So when the washing machine broke with a loud choked grind, the sound of its motor dying mid-cycle, I felt my stomach fall to my knees. I pressed buttons frantically. Nothing. I unplugged it. Plugged it back in. Nothing.
The pit in my stomach grew.
When Zed came home from work that evening, I didn’t waste a second.
“The washing machine is dead,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, though fatigue made it quiver. “We need a new one—immediately.”
He barely glanced up from his phone, eyebrows raised. “Huh?”
“I said the washing machine broke! We need a replacement. We can’t go without it for weeks!”
He nodded, a slow, dismissive gesture, kicked off his shoes, and scrolled his phone like nothing had happened. “Yeah. Not this month.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Not this month,” he repeated, completely unfazed. “Maybe next month when I get my salary. Three weeks.”
My chest tightened and my hands trembled slightly. “Three weeks? Zed, that’s impossible. Nadine’s clothes need to be washed daily. You don’t understand how fast she goes through clothes!”
He sighed dramatically, stretching his arms over his head like I was being unreasonable. “Look, I already promised to pay for my mom’s vacation this month. She really deserves it.”
I froze. “Your mom’s vacation?”
“Yes,” he said casually, scrolling through his phone. “She’s been babysitting for us. Thought it’d be nice to cover her trip.”
Babysitting?
I swallowed hard. His mother, Saff, had come over maybe once a month. She would sit on the couch, watch TV, nibble on the dinner I cooked, and take a nap while Nadine slept. That was visiting, not babysitting.
“But she doesn’t really babysit!” I said, voice rising. “She comes over, eats, naps, and leaves. That’s not helping!”
Zed frowned, clearly irritated I was challenging him. “Oh, come on, that’s not true.”
“Really? When was the last time she changed a diaper? Or fed her? Or even soothed her when she cried?”
He opened his mouth but shut it immediately. “That’s not the point.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Actually, it is.”
“Look,” he said, rubbing his face in frustration, “can’t you just wash everything by hand for now? People did it for centuries. Nobody died from it.”
I stared at him, my blood boiling. Wash everything by hand. As if I wasn’t already exhausted, sleep-deprived, and physically drained. My arms ached constantly, my fingers were chapped, and my back was screaming for relief.
I took a slow, deep breath and clenched my fists. I wanted to yell, to make him understand the injustice, but I knew arguing would be pointless.
So I exhaled, steeled myself, and looked at the mountain of dirty clothes by the door. Fine. If he wanted me to wash everything by hand, then that’s exactly what I would do.
The first load wasn’t too terrible. I filled the bathtub with hot, soapy water, dropped in Nadine’s tiny clothes, and scrubbed diligently. The smell of detergent mixed with baby powder filled the air, a strange comfort in the chaos. My arms ached, but I told myself it was only for a few weeks.
By the third load, my back was screaming, my fingers raw, and I still had towels, bed linens, and Zed’s office shirts to go. The routine became relentless: wake up, feed Nadine, clean, cook, wash by hand, wring, hang, repeat. By night, my hands were swollen and red, my shoulders tight, my body worn to the bone.
Zed didn’t notice. He’d come home, kick off his shoes, eat quietly, and stretch out on the couch, oblivious to the exhaustion etched across my face. Not once did he ask if I needed help, or glance at my blistered hands.
One night, after finishing yet another pile, I collapsed beside him, massaging my sore fingers.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked casually, barely looking at me.
“What’s wrong with me?” I echoed, disbelief burning in my chest.
“You look tired,” he said.
I laughed bitterly. “Gee, I wonder why.”
He turned back to the TV as if nothing had happened. That was the breaking point.
If Zed wanted me to live like a 19th-century housewife, fine. But if he wanted respect, he’d learn a lesson the hard way.
The next morning, I packed his lunch as usual—but instead of a sandwich, a salad, or leftovers, I filled it with stones. And atop the rocks, I left a folded note. Then I kissed his cheek and sent him off.
By 12:30 PM, Zed returned, furious, dragging himself through the front door, face red and fists clenched.
“What the hell is this?!” he shouted, slamming the lunchbox on the counter.
I turned slowly, wiping my hands. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
He opened it, revealing the pile of stones, and grabbed the note, reading it aloud:
“Men used to get food for their families themselves. Go hunt your meal, make fire with stones, and fry it.”
His face twisted in shock and anger. “Are you insane? I had to open this in front of my coworkers!”
I crossed my arms. “Oh, so public embarrassment is bad when it happens to you?”
He tried to argue, but I held my ground. “Go on, Zed. Tell me how this is different.”
“It’s… childish,” he muttered, clearly frustrated.
I laughed sarcastically. “Ah, so my suffering is childish, but yours is real?”
He threw up his hands. “You could have just talked to me!”
“Talked to you? I did! I told you I couldn’t last three weeks without a washing machine. I told you I was exhausted. And you shrugged and told me to wash by hand, like I’m living in the 1800s!”
He swallowed hard, guilt flashing across his face. He knew I was right.
I pointed at the stones. “You thought I’d take it lying down, huh? That I’d scrub, wring, and break my back while you lounged every night?”
He looked away, rubbing his neck.
“I’m not your servant, Zed. And I’m certainly not your mother,” I said firmly.
After a long silence, he finally muttered, “I get it.”
“Do you?” I asked, voice sharp.
“Yes,” he sighed. “I do.”
The next evening, the unmistakable sound of a box being dragged across the floor filled the house. A brand-new washing machine, gleaming and functional, stood proudly in the laundry room.
Zed didn’t say a word. He set it up, plugged it in, tested the settings. No excuses, no complaints. Just quiet determination.
When he finally looked at me, awkwardly and sheepishly, he admitted, “I should have listened to you sooner.”
“Yeah,” I said, arms crossed. “You should have.”
That day, I realized something important: sometimes, people need a little hands-on experience to understand real effort. And sometimes, payback is the most effective teacher.