When my husband told me scrubbing toilets was “women’s work,” I knew exactly what to do. What happened next involved his precious Xbox, my cousin’s cleaning skills, and a few words that turned his world upside. The look on his face was absolutely priceless.
Looking back now, I should have seen the warning signs earlier.
But when you’re in love, you make excuses for the people you care about. That’s exactly what I did with Eric for two whole years of marriage.
Don’t get me wrong, Eric wasn’t a bad husband. He was actually pretty wonderful in many ways.
He remembered my birthday, brought me flowers on random days, and could make me laugh until my sides hurt.
During our first year together, I genuinely believed I’d hit the marriage jackpot. “You’re so lucky,” my friends would tell me. “Eric’s such a catch.”
And he was, in his own way.
He worked hard at his job as a software engineer, pulling long hours and bringing home a decent paycheck.
He never complained about handling the “outside” stuff like grocery shopping, taking out trash, and dealing with car maintenance. These were his domains, and he handled them without being asked.
But inside our home? That was apparently my territory.
I worked full-time too, managing a small marketing firm downtown.
Yet somehow, I was the one scrubbing floors at midnight, doing laundry on weekends, and making sure we had clean dishes for dinner. Eric would come home, grab a beer, and sink into his gaming chair for hours of Call of Duty or whatever new release had caught his attention. “Babe, you work so hard,” I’d tell him when guilt tried to creep in.
“You deserve to relax.”
He’d flash me that boyish grin that made me fall for him in the first place.
“Thanks for understanding, Alice. You’re the best wife a guy could ask for.”
So I kept cleaning.
I kept cooking. I kept pretending that love meant doing everything myself while he leveled up his video game characters.
Looking back, I realize I was enabling him.
But at the time, it felt like being supportive. Everything shifted when I saw those two pink lines on the pregnancy test. My hands were shaking as I stared at the little plastic stick in our bathroom.
We’d been trying for months, and suddenly, there it was… concrete proof that we were going to be parents.
“Eric!” I called out, practically bouncing on my toes. “Can you come here for a second?”
He paused his game and jogged to the bathroom.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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