Six months postpartum, overwhelmed with baby laundry and exhaustion, I was on the verge of breaking down when our washing machine broke. I thought my husband, Billy, would step in and help, but instead, he shrugged nonchalantly and suggested I wash everything by hand—like people did for centuries. At the time, I had just given birth, and my days were consumed with feeding, cleaning, cooking, and managing laundry. Babies go through clothes nonstop, and without a washing machine, I was completely overwhelmed. When,

I told Billy how desperate the situation was, he dismissed my frustration and said we couldn’t afford a new washer until next month, since he was paying for his mom’s vacation. I couldn’t believe it. His mom didn’t babysit or help in any meaningful way—she just visited, ate, napped,and offered no support. Billy’s suggestion that I wash by hand felt like the last straw. I did it, of course, but the work was grueling and backbreaking. Billy would come home, eat dinner, and ignore my exhaustion as if nothing was wrong. That’s when I finally snapped. In a moment of defiance, I packed his lunch with rocks and added a note that read, “Go hunt your meal, make fire with stones, and fry it.” Billy came home furious,
but I calmly pointed out how ridiculous it was to expect me to endure such hardship while he did nothing to help. He apologized sincerely, and the very next day, I found a brand-new washing machine sitting in our kitchen. Billy had finally gotten the message—and for once, without any excuses.