Six months postpartum, drowning in baby laundry, and exhausted beyond words, I thought my husband would understand when our washing machine broke. But instead of helping, he shrugged and said, “Just wash everything by hand—people did it for centuries.”
I never thought I’d spend this much time doing laundry.
A tired woman in a chair | Source: Pexels
Six months ago, I gave birth to our first baby. Since then, my life had turned into a never-ending cycle of feeding, changing diapers, cleaning, cooking, and washing. So much washing. Babies go through more clothes in a day than an entire football team.
On a good day, I washed at least eight pounds of tiny onesies, burp cloths, blankets, and bibs. On a bad day? Let’s just say I stopped counting.
A woman doing laundry | Source: Pexels
So when the washing machine broke, I knew I was in trouble.
I had just pulled out a soaking pile of clothes when it sputtered, let out a sad grinding noise, and died. I pressed the buttons. Nothing. I unplugged it, plugged it back in. Nothing.
My heart sank.
When Billy got home from work, I wasted no time.
A tired puzzled woman | Source: Pexels
“The washing machine is dead,” I said as soon as he stepped through the door. “We need a new one.”
Billy barely looked up from his phone. “Huh?”
“I said the washing machine broke. We need to replace it. Soon.”
He nodded absently, kicked off his shoes, and scrolled through his screen. “Yeah. Not this month.”
A man on his phone in his living room | Source: Pexels
I blinked. “What?”
“Not this month,” he repeated. “Maybe next month when I get my salary. Three weeks.”
I felt my stomach twist. “Billy, I can’t go three weeks without a washing machine. The baby’s clothes need to be cleaned properly every day.”
A couple having a serious talk | Source: Pexels
Billy sighed like I was asking for something unreasonable. He put his phone down and stretched his arms over his head. “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?”
“Yeah. She’s been babysitting for us. I thought it’d be nice to do something for her.”
Babysitting?
A shocked woman | Source: Pexels
I swallowed hard. His mother came over once a month. She 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 like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on me. “She said she needed a break, so I figured I’d cover her trip. It’s just for a few days.”
A man talking to his wife in his kitchen | Source: Pexels
I crossed my arms. “Billy, your mom doesn’t babysit. She comes over, eats, naps, and goes home.”
He frowned. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, really? When was the last time she changed a diaper?”
Billy opened his mouth, then shut it. “That’s not the point.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, I think it is.”
A couple arguing in their kitchen | Source: Pexels
He groaned, rubbing his face. “Look, can’t you just wash everything by hand for now? People used to do that for centuries. Nobody died from it.”
I stared at him, feeling my blood boil. Wash everything by hand. Like I wasn’t already drowning in work, exhausted, aching, and running on three hours of sleep a night.
An angry woman clutching her head | Source: Pexels
I took a slow, deep breath, my hands clenching into fists. I wanted to yell, to scream, to make him understand how unfair this was. But I knew Billy. Arguing wouldn’t change his mind.
I exhaled and looked at the pile of dirty clothes stacked by the door. Fine. If he wanted me to wash everything by hand, then that’s exactly what I’d do.
The first load wasn’t so bad.
A pile of clothes | Source: Pexels
I filled the bathtub with soapy water, dropped in the baby’s clothes, and started scrubbing. My arms ached, but I told myself it was temporary. Just a few weeks.
By the third load, my back was screaming. My fingers were raw. And I still had towels, bedsheets, and Billy’s work clothes waiting for me.
A tired woman sitting near a bathtub | Source: Midjourney
Every day was the same. Wake up, feed the baby, clean, cook, do laundry by hand, wring it out, hang it up. By the time I was done, my hands were swollen, my shoulders stiff, and my body exhausted.
Billy didn’t notice.
A bored man on a couch | Source: Pexels
He came home, kicked off his shoes, ate the dinner I cooked, and stretched out on the couch. I could barely hold a spoon, but he never once asked if I needed help. Never looked at my hands, red and cracked from hours of scrubbing.
One night, after I’d finished washing another pile of clothes, I collapsed onto the couch next to him. I winced as I rubbed my aching fingers.
Billy glanced at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
A tired woman on her couch | Source: Pexels
I stared at him. “What’s wrong with me?”
He shrugged. “You look tired.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Gee, I wonder why.”
He didn’t even flinch. Just turned back to the TV. That was the moment something snapped inside me.
An annoyed woman in her kitchen | Source: Pexels
Billy wasn’t going to understand—not 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 as usual. Except instead of the big, hearty meal he expected, I filled his lunchbox with stones. Right on top, I placed a folded note.
A lunchbox filled with rocks | Source: Midjourney
Then I kissed his cheek and sent him off to work.
And I waited.
At exactly 12:30 PM, Billy stormed through the front door, red-faced and furious.
“What the hell have you done?!” he shouted, slamming his lunchbox onto the counter.
I turned from the sink, wiping my hands on a towel. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
A laughing woman in her kitchen | Source: Midjourney
He flipped open the lid, revealing the pile of rocks. 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 in 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?”
A shouting man wearing glasses | Source: Pexels
Billy clenched his jaw. He looked like he wanted to yell, but for once, he didn’t have a comeback.
I crossed my arms and tilted my head. “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?”
An angry woman lecturing her husband | Source: Pexels
He threw his hands in the air. “You could have just talked to me!”
I stepped forward, fire burning in my chest. “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!”
A woman turning away from her husband | Source: Pexels
His nostrils flared, but I could see the tiny flicker of guilt creeping in. He knew I was right.
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, rubbing the back of his neck.
A sad man clutching his head | Source: Pexels
I shook my head. “I’m not a servant, Billy. And I’m sure as hell not your mother.”
Silence. Then, finally, he muttered, “I get it.”
“Do you?” I asked.
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. I do.”
A tired man rubbing his temples | Source: Pexels
I watched him for a long moment, letting his words settle. Then 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.
An angry man in a hoodie | Source: Pexels
He barely touched his dinner. He didn’t turn on the TV. He sat on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it had personally betrayed him. Every now and then, he sighed loudly, like I was supposed to feel bad for him.
I didn’t.
For once, he was the one uncomfortable. He was the one who had to sit with the weight of his own choices. And I was perfectly fine letting him stew in it.
A woman reading a book on a couch | Source: Pexels
The next morning, something strange happened.
Billy’s alarm went off earlier than usual. Instead of hitting snooze five times, he actually got up. He got dressed quickly and left without a word.
I didn’t ask where he was going. I just waited.
That evening, when he came home, I heard it before I saw it—the unmistakable sound of a large box being dragged through the doorway.
A large box in the doorway | Source: Midjourney
I turned around and there it was. A brand-new washing machine.
Billy didn’t say anything. He just set it up, plugging in hoses, checking the settings. No complaints. No excuses. Just quiet determination.
When he finished, he finally looked up. His face was sheepish, his voice low.
“I get it now.”
A sorry man covering his face | Source: Pexels
I watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… should’ve listened to you sooner.”
“Yeah,” I said, crossing my arms. “You should have.”
He swallowed, nodded again, then grabbed his phone and walked away without argument or justification. Just acceptance. And honestly? That was enough.
A satisfied smiling woman | Source: Pexels
Tears Overwhelmed Me After Uncovering My Husband’s Scheme with My MIL, Leading to Their Expulsion from Our Home
At 27, managing a household with a loving but often preoccupied husband, a lively three-year-old, and a newborn feels akin to performing a ballet on a tightrope. My husband, Alex, aged 36, has been my steadfast partner throughout our shared chaos. We’ve enjoyed seven years of marriage, and we recently celebrated the arrival of our baby boy, Sam, just two weeks ago.
Our relationship has spanned nearly a decade, yet it took an unexpected turn last week. Alex’s mother, Kathy, had been deeply hurt by her second husband, and in her vulnerability, she turned to Alex for comfort. Without consulting me, Alex invited her to stay with us. Given her situation, I initially held back my objections—family should support each other, right?
That was my initial thought, until Kathy’s brief visit began to feel like an indefinite imposition. Kathy has always been vocal about her parenting beliefs, which she freely expressed during holiday gatherings. But living with her daily magnified her criticisms to an intolerable level.
Kathy continuously criticized my methods, particularly how I cared for Sam. Struggling with breastfeeding due to low milk supply—an issue I’ve come to terms with through numerous consultations with our pediatrician—Kathy viewed my use of formula as nearly criminal. Her rants about “squandered money” and comparisons to her own parenting left me feeling undermined in my own home.
Her criticisms extended beyond feeding. Kathy claimed my way of holding Sam was spoiling him, and she labeled my quick meal preparations for our daughter, Lily, as lazy. She would start her lectures with, “Back in my day,” dismissing the pediatrician’s advice and asserting her superior parenting knowledge.
The tension in our home was palpable. Alex attempted to mediate but often ended up making me feel more isolated as he struggled to balance his loyalties. My dread of facing another day of Kathy’s relentless critiques grew daily.
The breaking point came last night.
The atmosphere at home was charged with silent confrontations, turning dinner time into a battleground. Weighed down by exhaustion and the constant pressure, I sought a brief escape, asking Alex for a few minutes alone in the shower—a simple request for respite.
Kathy’s harsh response sliced through any hope of peace. She accused me of being lazy and gold-digging, suggesting that I was unfairly burdening Alex by asking him to momentarily step into a parental role. Her insinuation that I was reducing Alex to merely a babysitter was the last straw.
I had pleaded with Alex to address Kathy’s toxic attitude toward me and our household dynamics. Initially, he defended her, his maternal loyalty clouding his judgment. Yet, seeing the strain her presence put on me, he reluctantly agreed to speak with her. Clinging to hope, I believed we could overcome this together.
That hope was destroyed in the most painful way. Awakening in the middle of the night, I found Alex’s side of the bed empty. A chill of foreboding led me to the kitchen, where I stopped, overhearing a conversation that would crush any remaining trust.
“Listen, mom, tomorrow I will sell some of my wife’s jewelry and will rent you an apartment, ok?” Alex’s voice, once my comfort, now seemed alien.
Kathy’s reply twisted the knife deeper. “You know what she is like, how you tolerate her, she spoils your child. Doesn’t care about you at all. I’m not just telling her all this for nothing. I want you to be happy.”
Reeling from the betrayal, I confronted them, tears streaming down my face. I demanded that Kathy leave our home immediately. Alex tried to defend her, but it was too late. My heart wasn’t just broken by Kathy’s cruel words but by Alex’s participation in her schemes.
Overcome with anger and weeks of pent-up frustration, I erupted, “Go back to your own house!” My voice reverberated against our walls, contrasting starkly with the warmth it usually carried. “Mind your own parenting!”
Instead of support, Alex sided with Kathy. “You can’t do that to my own MIL,” he argued, aligning with her against me. His words felt like a betrayal, as if defending my dignity in my home was an act of cruelty.
Our argument escalated quickly, filled with high emotions and loud voices. “She has three other children she can stay with!” I cried out, my voice breaking. “What kind of husband lets his mother treat his wife this way?”
Ultimately, the house divided; Kathy and Alex left, the closing door marking a definitive end to our dispute. Left in the echoing silence, I felt completely isolated.
Feeling deserted, I turned to the only support I felt I had left—my sister and my mother. Their arrival brought some warmth back into the home, contrasting sharply with the coldness of Alex’s and Kathy’s departure. Together in the living room, I shared the full extent of the ordeal, my voice breaking as I recounted the painful events.
They offered me steadfast support, their presence soothing the raw edges of my emotions. Yet, despite their comforting presence, uncertainty about my future with Alex lingered. How could we possibly mend our relationship after such a betrayal?
As the night drew on, the emptiness of our house felt more pronounced, a reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. Without answers, only the heavy burden of uncertainty remained, making the path forward daunting.
With Alex gone, my family rallied around me, their actions reinforcing their support. My mother, driven by protective anger, gathered Alex’s belongings and placed them outside—a clear symbol of crossed boundaries. My father joined in, supporting us as we faced what seemed an insurmountable betrayal.
Support also came from unexpected places. My in-laws expressed their disappointment in Alex and Kathy, offering words of comfort during this tumultuous time.
As we discussed my next steps, the reality of potentially starting anew without Alex became clear. Consulting a divorce lawyer seemed a necessary step toward securing a future for myself and my children away from the toxicity that had seeped into our home.
In those moments, surrounded by my family’s unwavering support, I contemplated the future. Though laden with tough decisions, their presence reminded me of the resilience within me. The journey to healing and rebuilding would be long, but I was ready to take it—one step at a time.
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