Six months postpartum, buried in baby laundry, and worn out to the bone, I thought my husband would understand when our washing machine broke. But instead of helping, he just shrugged and said, “Just wash everything by hand—people did it for centuries.”
I never thought I’d spend this much time doing laundry. Six months ago, I gave birth to our first baby, Nadine.
Since then, my life had turned into an endless loop 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.
So when the washing machine broke, I knew I was in trouble. I had just pulled out a soaking pile of clothes when it choked, made a pathetic grind, and died. I pressed the buttons.
Nothing. I unplugged it, plugged it back in. Nothing.
My stomach dropped. When Zed got home from work, I wasted no time. “The washing machine is dead,” I said as soon as he stepped through the door.
“We need a new one.”
Zed hardly glanced up from his phone. “Huh?”
“I said the washing machine broke. We need to replace it.
Soon.”
He nodded halfheartedly, kicked off his shoes, and scrolled through his screen. “Yeah. Not this month.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Not this month,” he repeated. “Maybe next month when I get my salary. Three weeks.”
I felt my gut twist.
“Zed, I can’t go three weeks without a washing machine. Nadine’s clothes need to be cleaned properly every day.”
Zed sighed like I was being ridiculous. 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? I gulped hard.
His mother, Saff, came over once a month. She sat on the couch, watched TV, ate the dinner I cooked, and took a nap while Nadine slept. That wasn’t babysitting.
That was visiting. Zed kept talking like he hadn’t just hit me like a brick. “She said she needed a break, so I figured I’d cover her trip.
It’s just for a few days.”
I crossed my arms. “Zed, 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?”
Zed opened his mouth, then shut it. “That’s not the point.”
I let out a bitter laugh.
“Oh, I think it is.”
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 heat up. Wash everything by hand. Like I wasn’t already buried in work, worn out, aching, and running on three hours of sleep a night.
I took a slow, deep breath, my hands balling into fists. I wanted to yell, to scream, to make him understand how unfair this was. But I knew Zed.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
