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. I filled the bathtub with soapy water, dropped in Nadine’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 killing me.
My fingers were chapped. And I still had towels, bedsheets, and Zed’s work clothes waiting for me. Every day was the same.
Wake up, feed Nadine, clean, cook, do laundry by hand, wring it out, hang it up. By the time I was done, my hands were puffy, my shoulders sore, and my body worn out. Zed didn’t notice.
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 chapped 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. Zed glanced at me.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I stared at him. “What’s wrong with me?”
He shrugged. “You look tired.”
I let out a sarcastic laugh.
“Gee, I wonder why.”
He didn’t even flinch. Just turned back to the TV. That was the moment something broke inside me.
Zed 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 act like a caveman.
So I cooked up my payback. The next morning, I packed his lunch as usual. Except instead of the big meal he expected, I filled his lunchbox with stones.
Right on top, I placed a folded note. Then I kissed his cheek and sent him off to work. And I waited.
At exactly 12:30 PM, Zed stormed through the front door, fuming and flushed. “What the hell have you done?!” he shouted, slapping his lunchbox onto the counter. I turned from the sink, wiping my hands on a towel.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”
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, Vex? I had to open this in front of my coworkers!”
I crossed my arms.
“Oh, so public embarrassment is bad when it happens to you?”
Zed tightened 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, Zed. Tell me how this is different.”
His jaw tightened. “Vex, this is—this is just childish.”
I let out a sarcastic laugh.
“Oh, I see. So your suffering is real, but mine is just me being childish?”
He threw his hands in the air. “You could have just talked to me!”
I stepped forward, fire flaring in my chest.
“Talked to you? I did, Zed. 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!”
His nostrils flared, but I could see the slight hint 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?”
Zed looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. I shook my head. “I’m not a servant, Zed.
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.”
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, Zed. 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.”
Zed sulked for the rest of the evening.
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 deal with his own mess. And I was happy to let him stew in it. The next morning, something strange happened.
Zed’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.
I turned around and there it was. A brand-new washing machine. Zed 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 awkward, his voice low.
“I get it now.”
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 excuses or complaints. Just acceptance. And honestly?
That was enough.
