Six months after giving birth, I was overwhelmed with baby laundry, barely getting enough rest, and thought my husband would understand when our washing machine broke. But instead of offering a solution, he casually said, "Just wash everything by hand—people did it for centuries."

I never imagined I’d spend so much time doing laundry.

Six months ago, I had our first baby. Since then, my days had become a never-ending cycle of feeding, changing diapers, cleaning, cooking, and—of course—washing. Babies go through clothes like no other, and on a typical day, I would wash at least eight pounds of tiny clothes, burp cloths, blankets, and bibs. On the worst days, I lost track of how many loads I had to do.

So, when the washing machine broke, I knew things were about to get tough.

I had just pulled out a soaking pile of laundry when it suddenly sputtered, made a horrible grinding noise, and stopped working. I tried pressing buttons, unplugging it, and plugging it back in—but nothing.

I was panicking by the time Billy got home.

“The washing machine is broken. We need to buy a new one,” I said immediately.

Billy barely looked up from his phone. “Huh?”

I repeated, “The washing machine broke. We need to replace it soon.”

He nodded distractedly. “Yeah, not this month. Maybe next month when I get my salary.”

I couldn’t believe it. “Billy, I can’t go three weeks without a washing machine! The baby’s clothes need to be cleaned daily.”

Billy sighed as though I was asking for something unreasonable. “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?”

He explained, “Yeah, she’s been babysitting for us. I thought it’d be nice to give her a break.”

Babysitting?

His mom only came over once a month, 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 kept talking as if this was completely normal. “She said she needed a break, so I figured I’d cover her trip. It’s just a few days.”

I crossed my arms. “Billy, your mom doesn’t babysit. She comes over, eats, naps, and goes home.”

He frowned. “That’s not true.”

I raised an eyebrow. “When was the last time she changed a diaper?”

He was quiet for a moment. “That’s not the point.”

“Oh, I think it is,” I snapped.

He groaned and rubbed his face. “Look, can’t you just wash everything by hand for now? People did it for centuries. Nobody died from it.”

I stared at him in disbelief. Wash everything by hand? As if I wasn’t already drowning in chores, exhausted, and surviving on barely three hours of sleep a night.

I took a deep breath, my fists clenching. I didn’t want to argue—I knew it wouldn’t change his mind. So, I decided to do exactly what he asked.

The first load wasn’t too bad. I filled the bathtub with soapy water, tossed the baby’s clothes in, and scrubbed them by hand. My arms hurt, but I told myself it was temporary. Just a few weeks.

By the third load, my back was aching, my fingers raw. And I still had towels, bedsheets, and Billy’s work clothes to wash.

Every day was the same: wake up, feed the baby, clean, cook, and wash by hand. By the time I was done, my hands were swollen, my shoulders stiff, and I was completely wiped out.

Billy didn’t even notice. He came home, kicked off his shoes, ate the dinner I made, and stretched out on the couch. I could barely hold a spoon, but he never once asked if I needed help.

One night, after finishing another load, I collapsed next to him on the couch. My fingers throbbed with pain.

Billy glanced at me. “What’s wrong with you?”

I stared at him. “What’s wrong with me?”

“You look tired,” he said.

I let out a bitter laugh. “Gee, I wonder why.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just turned back to the TV. That was when I snapped.

I knew Billy wasn’t going to get it 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.

So I planned my revenge.

The next morning, I packed his lunch like usual—except this time, I filled his lunchbox with stones. I added a note on top: “Men used to get food for their families themselves. Go hunt your meal, make fire with stones, and fry it.”

I kissed him goodbye and waited.

At 12:30 PM, Billy stormed through the door, furious. He slammed his lunchbox onto the counter.

“What the hell did you do?” he shouted, opening the lunchbox to reveal the stones. He read the note out loud.

“Are you out of your 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’s face twisted in anger. He tried to argue but couldn’t come up with a comeback.

I tilted my head. “Go on, Billy. Tell me how this is different.”

He was clearly frustrated. “This is childish.”

I laughed sarcastically. “So your suffering is real, but mine is just me being childish?”

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

I stepped closer, angry. “I did talk to you, Billy. I told you I couldn’t go without a washing machine. I told you I was exhausted. And you shrugged it off like it was no big deal.”

Billy looked guilty for the first time.

I pointed to his lunchbox. “You thought I’d just keep washing clothes by hand while you relaxed on the couch every night?”

He looked away, rubbing his neck.

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

For a long moment, there was silence. Then Billy muttered, “I get it.”

“Do you?” I asked.

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

I turned back to the sink, rinsing my hands. “Good. Because if you ever put your mom’s vacation over my needs again, you’d better learn how to make fire with those rocks.”

Billy spent the rest of the evening sulking. He barely touched his dinner, stared at the wall, and sighed like I was supposed to feel bad for him. But I didn’t.

For once, he was uncomfortable. For once, he had to sit with the weight of his own choices.

The next morning, Billy’s alarm went off earlier than usual. He got up quickly, got dressed, and left without a word.

That evening, when he came home, I heard the unmistakable sound of a box being dragged through the door.

A brand-new washing machine.

Billy didn’t say anything. He just set it up, no complaints, no excuses—just quietly getting the job done.

When he finished, he looked up, his face sheepish. “I get it now.”

I nodded. “Good.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I should’ve listened to you sooner.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You should have.”

Billy didn’t argue. He grabbed his phone and walked off without any excuses. And honestly, that was enough for me.

That’s when I knew I had finally made my point.