Six months postpartum, drowning in baby laundry, and exhausted beyond words, I thought my husband would understand when our washing machine broke. But instead of helping, he shrugged and said, “Just wash everything by hand—people did it for centuries.”
I never thought I’d spend this much time doing laundry.
A tired woman in a chair | Source: Pexels
Six months ago, I gave birth to our first baby. Since then, my life had turned into a never-ending cycle of feeding, changing diapers, cleaning, cooking, and washing. So much washing. Babies go through more clothes in a day than an entire football team.
On a good day, I washed at least eight pounds of tiny onesies, burp cloths, blankets, and bibs. On a bad day? Let’s just say I stopped counting.
A woman doing laundry | Source: Pexels
So when the washing machine broke, I knew I was in trouble.
I had just pulled out a soaking pile of clothes when it sputtered, let out a sad grinding noise, and died. I pressed the buttons. Nothing. I unplugged it, plugged it back in. Nothing.
My heart sank.
When Billy got home from work, I wasted no time.
A tired puzzled woman | Source: Pexels
“The washing machine is dead,” I said as soon as he stepped through the door. “We need a new one.”
Billy barely looked up from his phone. “Huh?”
“I said the washing machine broke. We need to replace it. Soon.”
He nodded absently, kicked off his shoes, and scrolled through his screen. “Yeah. Not this month.”
A man on his phone in his living room | Source: Pexels
I blinked. “What?”
“Not this month,” he repeated. “Maybe next month when I get my salary. Three weeks.”
I felt my stomach twist. “Billy, I can’t go three weeks without a washing machine. The baby’s clothes need to be cleaned properly every day.”
A couple having a serious talk | Source: Pexels
Billy sighed like I was asking for something unreasonable. He put his phone down and stretched his arms over his head. “Look, I already promised to pay for my mom’s vacation this month. She really deserves it.”
I stared at him. “Your mom’s vacation?”
“Yeah. She’s been babysitting for us. I thought it’d be nice to do something for her.”
Babysitting?
A shocked woman | Source: Pexels
I swallowed hard. His mother came over once a month. She sat on the couch, watched TV, ate the dinner I cooked, and took a nap while the baby slept. That wasn’t babysitting. That was visiting.
Billy kept talking like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on me. “She said she needed a break, so I figured I’d cover her trip. It’s just for a few days.”
A man talking to his wife in his kitchen | Source: Pexels
I crossed my arms. “Billy, your mom doesn’t babysit. She comes over, eats, naps, and goes home.”
He frowned. “That’s not true.”
“Oh, really? When was the last time she changed a diaper?”
Billy opened his mouth, then shut it. “That’s not the point.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, I think it is.”
A couple arguing in their kitchen | Source: Pexels
He groaned, rubbing his face. “Look, can’t you just wash everything by hand for now? People used to do that for centuries. Nobody died from it.”
I stared at him, feeling my blood boil. Wash everything by hand. Like I wasn’t already drowning in work, exhausted, aching, and running on three hours of sleep a night.
An angry woman clutching her head | Source: Pexels
I took a slow, deep breath, my hands clenching into fists. I wanted to yell, to scream, to make him understand how unfair this was. But I knew Billy. Arguing wouldn’t change his mind.
I exhaled and looked at the pile of dirty clothes stacked by the door. Fine. If he wanted me to wash everything by hand, then that’s exactly what I’d do.
The first load wasn’t so bad.
A pile of clothes | Source: Pexels
I filled the bathtub with soapy water, dropped in the baby’s clothes, and started scrubbing. My arms ached, but I told myself it was temporary. Just a few weeks.
By the third load, my back was screaming. My fingers were raw. And I still had towels, bedsheets, and Billy’s work clothes waiting for me.
A tired woman sitting near a bathtub | Source: Midjourney
Every day was the same. Wake up, feed the baby, clean, cook, do laundry by hand, wring it out, hang it up. By the time I was done, my hands were swollen, my shoulders stiff, and my body exhausted.
Billy didn’t notice.
A bored man on a couch | Source: Pexels
He came home, kicked off his shoes, ate the dinner I cooked, and stretched out on the couch. I could barely hold a spoon, but he never once asked if I needed help. Never looked at my hands, red and cracked from hours of scrubbing.
One night, after I’d finished washing another pile of clothes, I collapsed onto the couch next to him. I winced as I rubbed my aching fingers.
Billy glanced at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
A tired woman on her couch | Source: Pexels
I stared at him. “What’s wrong with me?”
He shrugged. “You look tired.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Gee, I wonder why.”
He didn’t even flinch. Just turned back to the TV. That was the moment something snapped inside me.
An annoyed woman in her kitchen | Source: Pexels
Billy wasn’t going to understand—not unless he felt the inconvenience himself. If he wanted me to live like a 19th-century housewife, then fine. He could live like a caveman.
So I planned my revenge.
The next morning, I packed his lunch as usual. Except instead of the big, hearty meal he expected, I filled his lunchbox with stones. Right on top, I placed a folded note.
A lunchbox filled with rocks | Source: Midjourney
Then I kissed his cheek and sent him off to work.
And I waited.
At exactly 12:30 PM, Billy stormed through the front door, red-faced and furious.
“What the hell have you done?!” he shouted, slamming his lunchbox onto the counter.
I turned from the sink, wiping my hands on a towel. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”
A laughing woman in her kitchen | Source: Midjourney
He flipped open the lid, revealing the pile of rocks. He grabbed the note and read it out loud.
“Men used to get food for their families themselves. Go hunt your meal, make fire with stones, and fry it.”
His face twisted in rage. “Are you out of your damn mind, Shirley? I had to open this in front of my coworkers!”
I crossed my arms. “Oh, so public humiliation is bad when it happens to you?”
A shouting man wearing glasses | Source: Pexels
Billy clenched his jaw. He looked like he wanted to yell, but for once, he didn’t have a comeback.
I crossed my arms and tilted my head. “Go on, Billy. Tell me how this is different.”
His jaw tightened. “Shirley, this is—this is just childish.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Oh, I see. So your suffering is real, but mine is just me being childish?”
An angry woman lecturing her husband | Source: Pexels
He threw his hands in the air. “You could have just talked to me!”
I stepped forward, fire burning in my chest. “Talked to you? I did, Billy. I told you I couldn’t go three weeks without a washing machine. I told you I was exhausted. And you shrugged and told me to do it by hand. Like I was some woman from the 1800s!”
A woman turning away from her husband | Source: Pexels
His nostrils flared, but I could see the tiny flicker of guilt creeping in. He knew I was right.
I pointed at his lunchbox. “You thought I’d just take it, huh? That I’d wash and scrub and break my back while you sat on that couch every night without a care in the world?”
Billy looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.
A sad man clutching his head | Source: Pexels
I shook my head. “I’m not a servant, Billy. And I’m sure as hell not your mother.”
Silence. Then, finally, he muttered, “I get it.”
“Do you?” I asked.
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yeah. I do.”
A tired man rubbing his temples | Source: Pexels
I watched him for a long moment, letting his words settle. Then I turned back to the sink. “Good,” I said, rinsing off my hands. “Because I meant it, Billy. If you ever put your mother’s vacation over my basic needs again, you’d better learn how to start a fire with those rocks.”
Billy sulked for the rest of the evening.
An angry man in a hoodie | Source: Pexels
He barely touched his dinner. He didn’t turn on the TV. He sat on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it had personally betrayed him. Every now and then, he sighed loudly, like I was supposed to feel bad for him.
I didn’t.
For once, he was the one uncomfortable. He was the one who had to sit with the weight of his own choices. And I was perfectly fine letting him stew in it.
A woman reading a book on a couch | Source: Pexels
The next morning, something strange happened.
Billy’s alarm went off earlier than usual. Instead of hitting snooze five times, he actually got up. He got dressed quickly and left without a word.
I didn’t ask where he was going. I just waited.
That evening, when he came home, I heard it before I saw it—the unmistakable sound of a large box being dragged through the doorway.
A large box in the doorway | Source: Midjourney
I turned around and there it was. A brand-new washing machine.
Billy didn’t say anything. He just set it up, plugging in hoses, checking the settings. No complaints. No excuses. Just quiet determination.
When he finished, he finally looked up. His face was sheepish, his voice low.
“I get it now.”
A sorry man covering his face | Source: Pexels
I watched him for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I, uh… should’ve listened to you sooner.”
“Yeah,” I said, crossing my arms. “You should have.”
He swallowed, nodded again, then grabbed his phone and walked away without argument or justification. Just acceptance. And honestly? That was enough.
A satisfied smiling woman | Source: Pexels
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
My Husband Told Me to Move Into the Guest Room So His Mom Could Have Our Bed
When Phoebe’s mother-in-law moves in for the week, she doesn’t just take the guest room. No, she takes Phoebe’s entire bedroom. And her husband, Jake, lets it happen. But if they want to treat her like a guest in her own home, she’ll show them exactly what checking out looks like.
I was actually excited when Doreen announced she was coming to stay for a week.
I fluffed the pillows in the guest room, put out fresh towels, and even stocked the bathroom with lavender-scented soap because I was feeling extra generous.
A beautiful guest bedroom | Source: Midjourney
To top it off, I made her a batch of scones and cranberry and chocolate muffins. I was on my A-game.
This was my mother-in-law, after all. I wanted her to feel welcome.
What I didn’t realize, though, was that she was planning a hostile takeover.
Food on a kitchen counter | Source: Midjourney
That afternoon, I came home from work thinking that Doreen would have made us dinner. Secretly, I was hoping for her delicious stew and homemade rolls.
But it turned out that she had something else cooking.
I got into the quiet house, and stepped into my room, wanting to change into sweatpants and a sweater.
A pot of stew | Source: Midjourney
But instead of finding my room as it should have been, I found Doreen.
She was standing in the middle of my bedroom, happily unpacking her suitcase…
While tossing my clothes on the floor!
An older woman standing in front of a closet | Source: Midjourney
My dresses? Crumpled into a heap.
My shoes? Shoved into laundry baskets.
Her things? Neatly hung up in my closet like she owned the place.
For a moment, my brain refused to process what I was seeing.
A pile of clothing on the floor | Source: Midjourney
This woman hadn’t just taken over the room, she had erased me from it.
“Oh! Good. You’re back, Phoebe!” she chirped, barely glancing at me. “Be a sweetheart and move your stuff to the guest room, would you? There’s hardly any space in here with all my things.”
I just stared at her, still trying to understand how we got here.
Then Jake walked in, carrying her second suitcase like some hotel bellhop.
A shocked woman standing in a bedroom | Source: Midjourney
“Hey, Pheebs,” he said, like this was all completely normal. “Can you clear out of the room? Mom needs to rest. She’s had a long flight. You can set up in the guest room for the week. I’ll be in my office because you know my back can’t handle the guest room bed.”
There was my husband, talking to me like I was the intruder. Like I was someone he could just push around. Like my name wasn’t on the mortgage.
“I’m sorry, what?” I blinked. “You were saying?”
A man standing in a bedroom | Source: Midjourney
Jake sighed deeply. It was like I was being difficult.
“Come on, Phoebe, it’s not a big deal, babe.”
He set Doreen’s suitcase down at the foot of my bed and straightened up.
“Mom is used to better accommodations, and we want her to be comfortable. It’s only a week, Phoebe. You’ll survive the guest room.”
A suitcase in a bedroom | Source: Midjourney
I’d survive the guest room? I couldn’t believe that this was coming from Jake. Moments ago, he had complained about the bed in the guest room, and now I was supposed to go in there and sleep like everything was fine?
What about what I was used to? What about… me?
I turned back to Doreen. She had already settled onto my bed, propped up against my pillows, scrolling on her phone like a queen in her palace.
“Honestly, dear,” Doreen said, not even looking up from her phone. “It’s the least you could do. Family takes care of family, after all.”
An older woman sitting on a bed | Source: Midjourney
I felt something hot and bitter rise in my throat.
Family.
Funny how “family” only applies when I’m the one being inconvenienced.
“So let me get this straight,” I said. My voice came out calm, steady. “Your solution to having a guest in our home… was to move me out of my own bedroom?”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck.
A frowning woman | Source: Midjourney
“Well, when you put it like that…”
“I literally just walked in and found my clothes in a pile on the floor,” I cut in, my voice sharper now.
I turned to Doreen.
“Did it ever even cross your mind to just, oh, I don’t know, stay in the guest room? I had it set up for you, too.”
Doreen finally looked at me, her expression shifting into something condescending and sickly sweet.
“Oh, honey. The guest room is far too small for me, Phoebe. It’s perfectly fine for you, though.”
An upset woman | Source: Midjourney
“Oh, is it?” I laughed.
I actually laughed out loud.
Jake shot me a warning look.
“Phoebe, let’s not make this a thing. Please.”
I looked at my husband. Like, I really looked at him.
A man standing in a bedroom | Source: Midjourney
The way he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. The way he stood there, not on my side. The way he had known this was happening and didn’t think I deserved a conversation about it.
My chest felt tight.
This wasn’t just about the bed. It wasn’t even about the room. It was about respect and me realizing that I didn’t have any from them.
And suddenly?
A woman standing in a bedroom | Source: Midjourney
I was done.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t argue. I just smiled.
Then, I walked to the guest room. Jake thought I was moving into the guest room?
Oh, I was moving, all right.
I grabbed a suitcase and packed a few essentials. I took some clothes, my toiletries, and my laptop. Then, I wrote a very special note and left it on the guest room nightstand.
A gray suitcase in a bedroom | Source: Midjourney
Since you two clearly have everything under control at home, I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your week together. I’ll be back when the house feels like mine again.
Best of luck!
Then, I picked up my purse, turned my phone on silent, and walked out of the front door.
A note on a nightstand | Source: Midjourney
I didn’t go to my sister’s. I didn’t go to a friend’s.
Nah. There was no need for any of that.
Instead, I checked myself into a luxury hotel across town. I made sure that there was a spa, room service, and a king-sized bed that no one could try to steal out from under me.
And because life is all about balance, I booked it all on Jake’s credit card.
The interior of a hotel | Source: Midjourney
The steam curled around me, thick and warm, as I sank deeper into the plush chair of the relaxation lounge. Somewhere in the background, soft instrumental music played.
It was the kind of music that was designed to melt stress away.
“Your water, ma’am,” a soft voice said to my side. “It’s cucumber and lemon infused.”
I had been in the spa for hours. Wrapped in a robe. Slippers on my feet. And nothing but peace around me.
And yet?
A glass of lemon and cucumber water | Source: Midjourney
I couldn’t relax.
The whole point of this, leaving my home and checking into a hotel, was to enjoy myself. To wash the situation off me like a bad dream.
But instead, I sat thinking about it all and how it had unfolded.
I exhaled slowly, staring down at my hands.
Why did it hurt so much?
A woman sitting in a spa | Source: Midjourney
It wasn’t just about my bedroom or about Doreen. It was about Jake.
It was about the way he had looked at me when I walked into that room. Like I was being unreasonable. Like I was the one making things difficult.
He had asked me to move like it was a favor. Like I wasn’t his wife, who deserved the same care and attention that his mother had received.
A close up of a man | Source: Midjourney
I swallowed hard, pressing my fingertips against my temples.
For years, I had been accommodating. For years, I had let Doreen’s little jabs and subtle insults roll off my back. For years, I had told myself that “she didn’t mean it like that. Don’t make a big deal about it.”
And now?
Now she had tossed my clothes on the floor and made herself at home in my bedroom.
And Jake had let her!
I squeezed my eyes shut.
A woman at a spa | Source: Midjourney
I married Jake because I thought he saw me. Because I thought he valued me. But today had proved something I didn’t want to admit.
I was an afterthought in Jake’s life.
I clenched my jaw and sat up straighter.
No.
I wasn’t going to sit here drowning in this. I wasn’t going to let this spiral into something that ate me alive.
A determined woman | Source: Midjourney
I had left for a reason. And I had made my point. And if Jake wanted me back in that house, he was going to have to understand exactly why I left in the first place.
I took a slow sip of my water, letting the coolness settle in my chest.
For now?
I was going to finish my spa day.
But soon?
I was going to have a conversation Jake would never forget.
A woman having a spa treatment | Source: Midjourney
I walked through the front door of my house, dropped my bag onto the entryway table, and let the silence settle around me.
It smelled clean, like lemon-scented polish and fabric softener. Like someone had been desperately trying to make the house feel normal again.
Good.
A foyer | Source: Midjourney
I had only made it three steps into the living room before I saw him.
Jake was already waiting.
His arms were crossed, jaw tight. His dark circles told me that he hadn’t been sleeping well.
Good.
“Phoebe, you’re back,” he said, his voice unreadable.
A man sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney
“I live here, Jake,” I said simply.
Something flickered in his expression, but he masked it quickly.
“Well, thanks for finally coming home.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Did my absence inconvenience you?”
“You didn’t have to leave.”
A woman standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney
I laughed.
“I didn’t?” I gestured toward the bedroom. “Jake, you and your mother literally kicked me out of my own bed. You didn’t ask. You didn’t suggest. You told me.”
He sighed.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?” I challenged. “Because from where I was standing, it looked a hell of a lot like you were telling me I didn’t belong in my own damn home.”
A smiling older woman | Source: Midjourney
Silence.
I could see my husband fighting with himself, wanting to defend his actions but also knowing I was right.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” he said finally.
I nodded slowly, absorbing the words. There it was.
“You didn’t think it was a big deal?” I repeated. “Of course, you didn’t. Because it wasn’t your bed being taken—you willingly gave it. Your clothes weren’t thrown to the floor, your cupboard was perfectly untouched…”
A man sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney
He flinched.
“Jake, you stood there and watched while she erased me from our space. You just let it happen.”
“That’s not what I meant to do,” he said, his expression finally cracking under the pressure.
“But it’s what you did.”
He swallowed, looking down. And for the first time, I could see it. The weight of everything sinking in.
A woman standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney
“I thought I was keeping the peace,” he said.
We were both silent for a while.
“She left early, you know,” he said. “She said that she needed the cooking and cleaning to be done if she was going to be relaxed. She couldn’t handle the fact that she needed to do it.”
“I know,” I said. “I didn’t expect her to stick around long after I left. She just wanted to be waited on.”
A glum woman standing in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney
“She crossed a line in this house, Phoebe,” he said suddenly.
“Yeah, Jake,” I said, holding his gaze. “She did. And so did you.”
He looked down again, nodding slightly.
For the first time since I had walked in, I saw it. The realization.
Not just that he had messed up. But why.
An upset man | Source: Midjourney
When he finally met my eyes again, he looked exhausted.
“I hate that you felt like you had to leave,” he admitted.
“I hate that I wasn’t made to feel like I could stay,” I continued.
Silence.
I watched him for a moment, gauging the sincerity. He meant it.
A woman standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney
“Good.”
“I’ll order takeout,” he said after a pause.
“Fine with me, Jake,” I said.
Then I walked past him toward our bedroom, where my clothes were back in place. Where my things were neatly put away. And where, finally, I belonged again.
Indian takeout on a kitchen counter | Source: Midjourney
What would you have done?
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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