I’m 30, and recently became a first-time mom to a beautiful baby girl named Lila.
She’s nine weeks old now—adorable, yes—but also a tiny storm in human form. She screams like she’s auditioning for a horror film, fights sleep like it’s her nemesis, and refuses to be set down. She spends most of her day (and night) in my arms.
I’m currently on unpaid maternity leave, which sounds like a break but feels more like a nonstop, unpaid job. Around the clock, no breaks, no paycheck, and no relief. On top of caring for Lila, I’m running the entire household—laundry, meals, cleaning, and dealing with the never-ending cat hair from our two shedding machines.
My husband, Mason, is 34 and works in finance. When I was pregnant, he was kind and attentive—he made tea, rubbed my feet. Now? I feel invisible. I pass him the baby and five seconds later, he returns her with a shrug: “She’s fussy.”
Last week, our vacuum d!ed. In a house with beige carpet and two cats, that’s basically a code red. I approached Mason while he was deep into a video game.
“Hey,” I said, “the vacuum finally broke. I found one on sale. Can you pick it up this week?”
He didn’t look up. Just paused the game and replied, “Why? Just use a broom.”
I blinked. “Are you serious?”
He nodded. “Yeah. My mom didn’t have a vacuum raising five kids. She used a broom. You’re home all day. You’ve got time.”
I stared at him. “You’re not joking.”
“Nope,” he said with a smirk. “She didn’t complain.”
I let out a strangled laugh. “Did she also sweep one-handed while holding a screaming baby?”
He shrugged again. “Probably. Women back then were tougher.”
I tried to keep calm. “You know Lila will be crawling soon. Her face will be in this carpet.”
“It’s not that dirty,” he muttered.
“And besides,” he added, “I can’t spare money right now. I’m saving for that yacht weekend with the guys.”
“You’re saving for what?”
He looked at me. “The boat trip. I told you. I need the break—I’m the one earning money.”
That night, once Lila finally dozed off on my chest, I didn’t cry.
I didn’t scream. I just sat in the hallway, staring at the broken vacuum and the broom beside it. Then I stood up and snapped the broom clean in two.
The next morning, I packed Lila, still red-faced from a meltdown, into the car. Tossed the broom in the back and drove to Mason’s office.
Inside his sleek, glass building, I marched in with the jagged broom in one hand and Lila in the other. She was wailing, her diaper freshly blown out. Perfect timing.
The receptionist blinked at us. “Can I help—?”
“I’m Mason Carter’s wife,” I said with a bright smile. “He left something important.”
She waved me back.
I strode into the conference room just as Mason was joking with coworkers. He turned, his face draining of color.
“Babe—what are you doing here?”
I calmly set the two broom halves on the table. “Honey,” I said, shifting Lila, “I tried using the broom like your mom did. It broke.”
The room froze. I continued,
“So, should I sweep with my hands while carrying your daughter, or are you buying a new vacuum?”
He stammered. “Can we talk outside?”
“Sure.”
In the hallway, his face flushed with anger. “What was that? That was a client meeting!”
I looked at him. “That was me being resilient. Like your mom.”
“You humiliated me!”
I tilted my head. “Funny. I thought I was doing the job you said was easy.”
He groaned. “Fine. I’ll get the vacuum.”
“No need,” I said. “I used your card and already ordered one.”
That evening, he came home unusually quiet.
No tossed shoes. No clinking keys. No Xbox.
Later, he sat across from me as I fed Lila.
“I talked to HR,” he finally said. “Told them we’re going through a tough time. Stress. Sleep deprivation.”
“You mean your wife called you out for being useless while she kept the house running with a baby and a broom?”
He rubbed his neck. “I didn’t mean to be dismissive. I just… I’ve been overwhelmed too.”
I looked at him and said evenly, “You’re either a husband and a father, or just a roommate with guilt. Decide.”
The next day, the yacht trip was suddenly “rescheduled.”
That week, Mason vacuumed every carpet twice. Changed diapers. Took night shifts. Paced with Lila until she fell asleep on his shoulder. Even let me nap Sunday and left a sticky note on the mirror: “Sleep. I’ve got her.”
I didn’t say “I told you so.” Didn’t bring up the office.
But I left the broken broom in the hallway.
Just in case he ever forgets.
