I always believed housework was easy and that women just exaggerated about it. But I realized I was the problem the moment my wife left me alone for a day to handle everything myself.
When I got home from work, I tossed my keys on the table and collapsed onto the couch. I only wanted to relax after a long, tiring day.
The warm aroma of cooking drifted from the kitchen. Lucy was at the stove, stirring a saucepan. Danny stood beside her on a chair, clumsily peeling carrots with his little hands.
Lucy glanced sideways. “Jack, can you set the table?”
I barely looked up from my phone. “That’s your job.”
She took a moment before replying. Her sigh—one I’d heard countless times—carried exhaustion. Danny, of course, didn’t seem to notice.
“I’ll do it, Mommy!” he chirped, hopping down eagerly.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Lucy said with a smile.
I shook my head. “You’re gonna turn him into a girl doing that.”
Lucy stiffened, but didn’t turn around. Meanwhile, Danny frowned. “What’s wrong with helping, Daddy?”
“Boys don’t do housework, kid,” I muttered, leaning deeper into the couch.
Danny turned to Lucy, confused. She gently handed him the silverware and gave his back a soft pat. “Go on, set the table.”
I watched as Danny carefully arranged the spoons and forks. He looked so proud, like he was doing something important.
At work the next day, I overheard Lucy’s friends inviting her to their annual conference. Just an overnight trip. She hesitated at first. Then I noticed her eyes take on a thoughtful look.
That evening, while I was watching TV, she brought it up. “Hey, the work conference is this week,” she said. “I’ll be leaving. I’ll be back tomorrow by noon.”
I glanced at her. “Okay?”
“You’ll need to take care of Danny and the house while I’m gone.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s easy.”
Lucy smiled—but not her usual smile. It was the kind that made me feel something was off. “Good,” she said. She packed her bag while I messaged my boss to take the day off.
The next morning, I groaned and rolled over, squinting at the alarm clock.
7:45 a.m. Wait—7:45?
Panic gripped me as I jumped out of bed. Lucy always woke me up to help get Danny ready. But she wasn’t here—she’d already left. And I had overslept.
“Danny!” I shouted as I threw off the covers and stumbled into the hallway. “We’re late!”
Danny shuffled out, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s Mommy?”
“She’s at work,” I said, yanking open his dresser drawers. “Where are your clothes?”
“Mommy picks them.”
Of course she did. I pulled out sweatpants and a wrinkled T-shirt. “This’ll do. Put them on.”
Danny frowned. “They don’t match.”
“It’s fine,” I said, tossing them to him. “Just hurry.”
I dashed to the kitchen to make breakfast. No time, but Lucy always had toast, pancakes, eggs… I shoved two slices of bread into the toaster, grabbed a juice box—and then heard a sharp crack behind me.
Smoke curled from the toaster. I yanked out the burnt, blackened toast.
Danny walked in, wrinkling his nose. “Ew.”
“Just eat a banana,” I muttered, tossing one onto a plate.
“But I wanted pancakes.”
I rubbed my face, groaning. “No time, Danny. Just eat.”
He sighed and peeled the banana anyway.
I threw his shoes on, grabbed his backpack, and rushed him into the car.
On the way back from school, my stomach rumbled. I pulled into a drive-through hot dog stand and took a massive bite on the drive home—only to feel something cold and sticky on my chest.
I looked down. Bright red ketchup had soaked into my shirt.
I cursed and dabbed at it with napkins, steering with one hand. Great.
Frustrated, I got home and realized I had to do laundry myself. How hard could it be?
I stood in front of the washing machine, staring at the dials like they were alien symbols. “Delicate,” “Heavy Load,” “Permanent Press”? What did it mean?
I twisted knobs. Pressed buttons. Nothing.
After fumbling for a few minutes, I gave up and threw the shirt on the floor. Whatever. I’ll get another.
Then I remembered: I had an early meeting the next day. Lucy always ironed my shirts. I’d seen her do it—how hard could that be?
I laid out my nicest shirt, plugged in the iron, and pressed down firmly.
Almost instantly, the air filled with the sharp scent of scorched fabric. I lifted the iron and stared at the huge, smoking hole in the shirt.
With a groan, I tossed it in the trash. Who even invented irons?
I tried making lunch—just chicken. Shouldn’t be hard. I pulled a frozen pack from the freezer, dumped it into a pan, and cranked up the heat.
Ten minutes later, thick smoke billowed from the stove. Coughing, I pulled the pan off and stared at the charred, shriveled mess. The smoke alarm shrieked overhead.
I beat at it with a towel until it finally shut off.
Exhausted and defeated, I figured I’d clean up at least one mess. But even the dishwasher controls were a mystery. It was packed with dirty dishes.
I pressed a button—nothing. Turned a knob—nothing again.
Sighing, I dropped the dish in the sink and ran my hand through my hair.
I was spent.
This was supposed to be easy.
My dad always said housework was simple. I used to see him relax on the couch while my mom cleaned. “Not a man’s job,” he’d say. “Women just complain too much.”
I believed him.
But sitting in the middle of this disaster, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
By the time I picked Danny up, I was done. My stomach growled, my head ached, and my nerves were fried. Danny hummed to himself as he climbed into the car, but I barely responded.
The moment we walked in, he froze. His eyes widened at the overflowing laundry, stacked dishes, and faint smell of burnt chicken.
“Daddy… what happened?”
I sighed. “I don’t know, buddy. I tried, but nothing went right.”
Instead of laughing or complaining, Danny nodded. “Okay. Let’s clean up.”
I blinked. “Huh?”
“Mommy and I do it together all the time,” he said simply. “I’ll show you.”
He marched to the washer, grabbed my ketchup-stained shirt from the floor, and tossed it in. Without hesitation, he twisted the knob, pressed a few buttons, and the cycle began.
I stared. “How did you—”
“Mom taught me,” he shrugged, and went on.
He opened the dishwasher, pulled out the racks, and began loading plates like a pro. I’d spent thirty minutes on that thing.
Silently, I watched him tidy the counter, toss the burned chicken, and place a clean towel by the sink. My six-year-old was more capable than me.
My chest tightened.
“Why do you help so much?” I asked.
Danny smiled. “Because Mommy needs it.”
Those words hit harder than anything else.
Lucy didn’t just want Danny to learn. She needed help—help I never gave.
I’d watched my mother wear herself down while my father sat idle. I never questioned it. I thought it was normal. But now, seeing my son take over the tasks I’d always ignored, my perspective shifted.
Lucy had never nagged. She never made a scene. She was just… tired. Like my mom had been. And I never noticed.
I took a deep breath, looking at the now-clean kitchen. “Danny?”
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“Thanks, buddy.”
He smiled, and I knew—something had to change.
The next evening, I got home to find Lucy and Danny in the kitchen again. She was chopping vegetables while Danny stirred something in a bowl.
Lucy smiled. “Hi. How was your day?”
I stepped forward, rubbing my neck. “Better than yesterday.”
She smirked. “I’ll bet.”
We stood quietly for a moment. Then she lifted a knife. “Want to help me make dinner?”
A week ago, I would’ve laughed. I would’ve waved her off and collapsed on the couch.
But now I saw things clearly.
I stepped closer. “Yeah. I do.”
Lucy raised an eyebrow and handed me a chopping board. I picked up a tomato and began slicing—awkwardly, but with intent. Lucy smiled, and Danny giggled.
We weren’t just making dinner.
We were finally doing it together.