When our vacuum broke, my husband said to sweep since I’m “just” on maternity leave. I showed up at his office with our newborn and a shattered broom to show him what my “easy” days are like, and it changed our marriage for the better.
I’m 30, and my world is Lila, my 9-week-old daughter. She’s perfect but intense, crying constantly, rejecting naps, and needing me 24/7. Maternity leave is unpaid chaos, not a break. I also handle cooking, cleaning, laundry, and our two cats, who shed like it’s their mission. My husband, Mason, is 34, a finance worker. He was caring when I was pregnant, but now he barely notices me, handing Lila back when she cries.
Last week, our vacuum stopped working, a nightmare with cat hair and light carpets. “Mason,” I said while he gamed, “the vacuum’s dead. Can you get one? It’s on sale.” He didn’t look at me. “Just sweep,” he said. “My mom raised five kids with a broom. You’re home all day.” I was shocked. “Seriously?” I asked. He nodded. “She didn’t complain. Women were tougher then.” I bit back my hurt. “Your mom swept with a baby screaming?” He shrugged. “Probably. It’s not that bad.”
Cat hair was everywhere, but he added, “I can’t buy a vacuum. I’m saving for a yacht trip with friends. I need a break. I’m earning.” His words stung. He didn’t see the midnight feedings, the endless chores, or the exhaustion. That night, with Lila asleep on me, I stared at the broken vacuum and broom. Anger surged. I grabbed the broom and broke it in half.
The next morning, I texted Mason at work. “Busy day?” I asked. “Tons of meetings,” he replied. “Good,” I said. I strapped Lila, mid-tantrum from a messy diaper, into her car seat, grabbed the broken broom, and drove to his office. Lila wailed, and I was disheveled—spit-up on my shirt, hair a mess. I marched into his sleek office with Lila and the broom. The receptionist blinked. “I’m Mason’s wife,” I said, smiling. “He forgot something.” She waved me in.
I entered Mason’s meeting, Lila’s cries filling the room. He was laughing with coworkers until he saw me. “What’s going on?” he asked, standing. I set the broken broom on the table. “I tried sweeping like your mom,” I said, holding Lila. “It broke. Should I sweep by hand, or can we get a vacuum?” Silence fell. A colleague stared at his laptop. Mason muttered, “Outside, now,” leading me out.
In the hall, he snapped, “You embarrassed me! That was a client meeting!” I shrugged. “I thought sweeping was easy. I’m just doing what you said.” He sighed, defeated. “I’ll get the vacuum.” I smiled. “Already ordered. Your card.” I left, Lila fussing, broom in hand.
That night, Mason was quiet. As I fed Lila in the soft light, he sat down. “I talked to HR,” he said. “About us. The stress.” I raised an eyebrow. “You said I’m tired and need help?” He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to dismiss you. Work’s tough.” I looked at him. “Be a partner, Mason, or be a stranger. Choose.” He nodded silently.
The yacht trip was canceled. Mason vacuumed the house, changed diapers, and took night shifts, even when Lila screamed. He walked her one morning, leaving a note: “Rest. I’ve got this.” I didn’t gloat. The broken broom sits in the hall, a reminder he won’t ignore.
