My Husband Refused to Buy a New Washing Machine and Told Me to Wash Everything by Hand — Because He Promised His Mom a Vacation Instead
Six months postpartum, I’m buried in baby laundry and exhaustion. Our washing machine dies with a grind, leaving me staring at a soggy pile. I beg my husband Billy for a replacement.
He scrolls his phone: “Not this month—promised Mom’s vacation. She babysits.”
Babysits? She visits once a month, naps, eats my cooking, watches TV. No diapers changed.
I protest: “I can’t wait three weeks!”
He shrugs: “Wash by hand. People did for centuries.”
Fury boils, but I comply. Bathtub scrubs, raw fingers, aching back—daily loads of onesies, bibs, his shirts. He lounges, oblivious.
One night, rubbing swollen hands, he notices: “You look tired.” I snap inside.
Revenge: His lunchbox gets rocks. Note: “Men hunted their food. Go forage, spark fire with stones, cook it.”
Noon: He storms in, humiliated before coworkers. “This is childish!”
“Is my suffering childish?” I retort. “You ignored my pleas!”
Guilt flickers. He sulks all evening.
Next morning, he vanishes early. Returns dragging a box: brand-new washer.
Sets it up silently, sheepish: “I get it now. Should’ve listened.”
I nod. Acceptance enough. No more caveman excuses.
