When our vacuum broke, my husband suggested I just sweep since I’m “home all day anyway.” So, I grabbed our newborn and a broken broom, showing up at his office to remind him of what that really looks like. I’m 30 and just had my first baby, a sweet little girl named Lila. She’s 9 weeks old—perfect but also pure chaos. She screams like she’s in a horror movie, refuses naps, and hates being put down. She mostly lives in my arms.
I’m on unpaid maternity leave, which sounds relaxing, but it actually means I’m working around the clock with no help, no breaks, and no paycheck. I’m also running the house—laundry, meals, litter boxes for our two shedding cats. My husband, Mason, is 34 and works in finance. He used to be sweet. When I was pregnant, he made me tea and rubbed my feet. Now? I’m the one who hands him the baby, and he says, “She’s fussy,” and gives her back in seconds.
Last week, the vacuum broke—disastrous in a house with beige carpets and two shedding cats. I told Mason while he was playing Xbox, “The vacuum finally gave out. I found one on sale. Can you grab it this week?” He didn’t even look up, just paused his game and said, “Why? Just use a broom.”
I was stunned. “Seriously?”
He nodded. “Yeah. My mom didn’t have a vacuum when we were kids. She raised five of us with a broom. You’ve got one. And you’re home all day.”
I was speechless. “You’re not joking.”
“Nope,” he smirked. “She didn’t complain.”
I let out a half-choked laugh. “Did your mom also carry a screaming baby around while sweeping with one arm?”
He shrugged. “Probably. She got it done. Women were tougher back then.”
I took a breath. “You know the baby’s crawling soon, right? She’s going to have her face on this carpet.”
Another shrug. “The place isn’t that bad.”
I looked around. There were literal cat tumbleweeds in the corner.
Then he added, “I’m saving for a yacht trip next month. With the guys.”
“You’re saving for what?”
“The boat weekend. I told you. I need a break. I’m the one bringing in the income right now. It’s exhausting.”
I didn’t say anything. What could I say? I didn’t mention how he hadn’t changed a diaper in days or how he naps while I pump milk at 3 a.m. I didn’t mention how scrubbing spit-up off a onesie isn’t exactly relaxing. I just nodded.
That night, after Lila finally fell asleep on my chest, I didn’t cry or yell. I just sat quietly in the hallway, the glow of the nightlight illuminating the baby monitor. It was too quiet. I looked at the broken vacuum, then the broom. I stood up, took the broom, and snapped it in half.
The next morning, while Mason was at work, I texted him: “Busy day at the office?”
“Yeah, back-to-backs. Why?”
“No reason. I’m just on my way.”
I packed Lila into the car, red-faced from her morning meltdown, tossed the broken broom in the back, and drove to his office. When I pulled into the parking lot, Lila was screaming like I’d strapped her into a rocket seat. She’d blown out her diaper during the drive and wasn’t shy about letting me know how she felt.
I wiped spit-up off my shirt, threw a burp cloth over my shoulder, grabbed the broken broom, and unbuckled her.
“Alright, Lila,” I muttered. “Let’s go say hi to Daddy.”
His office building was sleek, full of glass and fake smiles. I walked in with Lila in one arm and the jagged broom in the other. The receptionist blinked twice. “Can I help—?”
“I’m Mason Carter’s wife,” I said, smiling. “He left something important at home.”
“Oh, sure. He’s in a meeting, but you can go back.”
I walked past her desk like I owned the place. Lila started wailing again as I turned the corner into the conference room. There he was, Mason, sitting at a long glass table with coworkers, laughing about something on a spreadsheet like he didn’t have a wife unraveling at home.
He looked up, his face went white. “Babe—what are you doing here?”
I walked straight in and set the two broken broom pieces gently on the table in front of him. “Honey,” I said, shifting Lila on my hip, “I tried using the broom like your mom did with her five kids. But it broke. Again.”
The room went silent. Someone coughed. One guy stared at his laptop like it was suddenly the most interesting thing ever.
I looked around the room and kept going. “So,” I said calmly, “should I keep sweeping the carpet with my hands while holding your daughter? Or are you going to buy a new vacuum?”
Mason looked like he might faint. His eyes darted between me, the broom, and his coworkers. He opened his mouth and closed it, clearly unsure of what to say first. “Can we talk outside?” he asked, his voice sharp.
“Of course,” I said, smiling.
He yanked the door closed behind us. “What the hell was that?” he hissed. His face was bright red now.
“That was me being resourceful,” I said. “Like your mom.”
“You embarrassed me!” he snapped, glancing toward the conference room. “That was a client pitch. My boss was in there.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said, tilting my head. “I thought you said this was all part of the job—housewife stuff. What’s the issue? I’m just doing what you said.”
He rubbed his neck. “I get it, okay? I messed up. I’ll get the vacuum today.”
“No need,” I said. “I already ordered one. With your card.”
I turned and walked out, Lila still crying, broom handle still under my arm.
Mason came home that night quieter than usual. He didn’t toss his shoes in the hallway or drop his keys on the counter. He didn’t even glance at the Xbox. I was feeding Lila on the couch, the living room dim except for the floor lamp’s glow and the soft hum of the white noise machine. He sat down across from me, hands folded like he was waiting for a reprimand.
“I talked to HR today,” he said.
“HR?” I blinked at him.
He nodded, staring at the carpet. “Yeah. About our… situation. Stress at home. Lack of sleep.”
I let a beat pass. Lila made a soft noise in her sleep.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t raise my voice. I just said, calm as ever, “Mason, you’re either a husband and a father, or you’re a roommate with a guilt complex. You decide.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. He nodded slowly, lips pressed together like he was swallowing something bitter.
The next morning, the yacht trip was canceled. He said the guys were “rescheduling,” but I didn’t ask questions. I’m pretty sure “the guys” didn’t even know it was happening.
That week, he vacuumed every rug in the house—twice. He looked like he was battling dust bunnies. He didn’t say a word about it. He changed three diapers without being asked. He took the 3 a.m. bottle shift for two nights, even when Lila screamed in his face like she knew he was new at it. He paced the hallway with her until she fell asleep on his shoulder. He even took her for a walk Sunday morning so I could nap, leaving a sticky note on the bathroom mirror that said, “Sleep. I’ve got her.”
I didn’t gloat, didn’t say “I told you so.” I didn’t even bring up the office. But the broken broom? Still sitting in the hallway, right where I left it—just in case he forgets.
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