When our vacuum broke, my husband said I should just sweep since I’m “home all day anyway.” So I took our newborn and a broken broom and went to his office to show him what that really looks like. I’m Maris. I’m 30.
I just had my first baby, a sweet little girl named Alina. She’s 9 weeks old, and yeah—she’s perfect. But also?
She’s chaos. She cries like she’s in a scary film. Hates naps.
Hates being set down. Pretty much stays in my arms. I’m on unpaid maternity leave, which sounds nice until you realize it’s a 24/7 job with no help, no breaks, and no pay.
I’m also managing the house. And the washing. And the cooking.
And the litter boxes. We have two cats, both shedding like it’s their main job. My husband Colden is 34.
He works in finance. Used to be caring. When I was pregnant, he made me tea and massaged my feet.
Now? I’m not sure he sees me. I’m the woman who hands him the baby so he can say “she’s cranky” and hand her back five seconds later.
Last week, the vacuum quit. In a house with two cats and beige carpet, that’s like losing air. “Hey,” I told Colden while he was on his Xbox.
“The vacuum’s dead. I found a good one on sale. Can you pick it up this week?”
He didn’t look up.
Just paused his game and said, “Why? Just use a broom.”
I blinked. “Really?”
He nodded.
“Yeah. My mom didn’t have a vacuum when we were kids. She raised five of us with a broom.
You’ve got one. And you’re home all day.”
I stared at him. “You’re not kidding,” I said.
“Nope.” He smirked. “She didn’t complain.”
I let out a strange laugh. Half choking, half hurting inside.
“Did your mom also hold a crying baby while sweeping with one arm?” I asked. He shrugged. “Probably.
She managed. Women were tougher then.”
I took a breath. Tried to stay calm.
“You know the baby’s crawling soon, right? Her face will be in this carpet.”
Another shrug. “The place isn’t that bad.”
I looked around.
There were actual cat fur balls in the corner. “And anyway,” he added, “I don’t have extra cash now. I’m saving for the yacht trip next month.
With the guys.”
“You’re saving for what?”
“The boat weekend. I told you. I need a break.
I’m the one earning money now. It’s tiring.”
That’s when I stopped talking. What could I say?
“You haven’t changed a diaper in days?” “You sleep while I pump milk at 3 a.m.?” “You think cleaning spit-up off a onesie is relaxing?”
I didn’t say any of it. I just nodded. Apparently, raising a child is a holiday now, and the woman doing it doesn’t need a working vacuum.
That night, after Alina fell asleep on my chest, I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I just sat in the hallway.
The light was off, but the soft glow from the nightlight hit the baby monitor just right. It was quiet. Too quiet.
I looked at the broken vacuum. Then at the broom. I got up.
Took the broom in both hands. Snapped it in half. The next morning, while Colden was at work, I texted him.
“Busy day at the office?”
“Yeah. Back-to-backs. Why?”
“Oh.
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