Six months postpartum, overwhelmed with baby laundry and exhaustion, I was ready to lose it when our washing machine broke. I thought my husband, Billy, would help, but instead, he shrugged and suggested I wash everything by hand, as people did for centuries. I had just given birth, and between feeding, cleaning, cooking, and laundry, my life felt like an endless cycle. Babies go through clothes non-stop, and without a washing machine, I was in trouble. When I told Billy, he dismissed it, saying we couldn’t buy a new one until next month because he was paying for his mom’s vacation. I was furious. His mom didn’t babysit; she visited, ate, napped, and did nothing to help.

Billy’s suggestion to wash by hand felt like the last straw. I did it, but the work was backbreaking. Billy came home, ate, and ignored my exhaustion. One day, I snapped. In revenge, I packed his lunch with rocks and a note that read, “Go hunt your meal, make fire with stones, and fry it.” Billy came home furious, but I pointed out how ridiculous it was to expect me to suffer while he did nothing. He apologized, and the next day, I found a brand-new washing machine in our kitchen. Billy finally understood—and without any excuses.