For two years, my husband had a habit of announcing last-minute family visits, expecting me to clean, cook, and entertain with little notice. I’d comply, but this time, I was done. One Saturday, he smugly declared his family was coming in four hours, handing me a checklist: clean, shop, cook dinner and dessert, even wipe baseboards. He lounged while I was to scramble.
Instead of arguing, I said, “Sure, I’ll go to the store.” I drove to Target, got a latte, and wandered aimlessly, refusing to rush for his demands. I texted him: “Still at the store. Traffic’s wild.” Returning late, I found chaos: half-cleaned rooms, screaming kids, a burnt pizza, and my frazzled husband failing to dress up store-bought cheesecake. His shocked “Where have you been?” was met with my calm, “You told me to go to the store.”
That night, I didn’t help. His mom judged, but I didn’t care. Later, he accused me of embarrassing him. I countered that his unfair expectations weren’t a partnership. Surprisingly, he cleaned the kitchen next morning and later suggested planning visits together. He hasn’t sprung a last-minute visit since.
