I always thought housework was easy—something women just complained about. But when my wife left me alone for a day to handle everything myself, I quickly realized I was the problem.
I grew up in a house where my dad sat on the couch, beer in hand, while my mom cleaned around him. He always said, “The house is a woman’s job!” and she never complained. So I believed it. Housework? Easy. Women didn’t need help.
When my wife Lucy would ask, “Can you set the table?” I’d shrug and say, “That’s your job.” I hated that she was teaching our son, Danny, how to do “women’s chores.”
Then one day, Lucy got invited to a conference. She asked, “Think you can handle the house for a day?”
Obviously. I said yes.
She left. And the chaos began.
I overslept. Danny was late for school. I burned his toast. But that was just the beginning.
I spilled ketchup on my shirt. With Lucy gone, I had to wash it myself.
Staring at the washing machine’s buttons, I was lost. After a few failed attempts, I gave up. I’d just wear another shirt. But then I remembered my morning meeting—I’d need a pressed one. Ironing seemed easy enough.
One press, and I burned a hole straight through my best shirt. Frustrated, I moved on to lunch. Minutes later, smoke filled the kitchen, the alarm blared, and my meal was ruined.
Defeated, I turned to the sink. The dishwasher was just as confusing.
By the time I picked up Danny, I was drained. The moment we walked in, he froze. Dishes piled up, laundry overflowed, and the air still smelled of burnt chicken.
“Daddy… what happened?”
I sighed. “I tried, but nothing went right.”
Danny just nodded. “Okay. Let’s clean up.”
Before I could react, he started the washing machine, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped the counters—handling everything effortlessly.
“How do you know all this?” I asked, stunned.
“Mommy taught me. She needs help.”
His words hit me. Lucy wasn’t nagging—she was exhausted. Just like my mother had been. And I had never noticed.
The next evening, I came home from work and found Lucy and Danny in the kitchen. She was chopping vegetables while Danny stirred something in a bowl.
Lucy held up a knife. “Want to help me make dinner?”
A week ago, I would’ve laughed. I would’ve waved her off, gone to sit on the couch, and let her handle everything. But now, I saw things clearly.
I stepped forward. “Yeah. I do.”
Lucy’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but then she handed me a cutting board. I picked up a tomato and started slicing, clumsy but determined. Danny giggled, and Lucy smiled.
We weren’t just making dinner. We were finally working together.
