Six months after giving birth, I was running on fumes. Between night feedings, endless diapers, and mountains of baby laundry, my days had blurred into one long stretch of exhaustion. So when our washing machine broke, I figured my husband, Billy, would step up. He didn’t.
Instead, he looked up from his phone and said, “Just wash everything by hand—people did it for centuries.”
That one sentence told me everything I needed to know about how little he understood what my days looked like.
I’d been spending hours every day doing laundry. Babies soil more clothes in a day than an adult does in a week. Onesies, bibs, burp cloths, sheets, towels—it never ended. So when the washing machine sputtered, groaned, and died, I stared at it in disbelief. I tried unplugging it, pressing every button, whispering a prayer. Nothing. It was gone.
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