When our vacuum broke, my husband told me to sweep since I’m “just” on maternity leave. I showed up at his office with our newborn and a broken broom to teach him what being “home all day” really means—and it’s a lesson he’ll always remember.
I’m 30, and my days are ruled by Lila, my 9-week-old daughter. She’s a bundle of joy who cries like a siren, hates naps, and clings to me constantly. Maternity leave is no break—it’s an unpaid, nonstop job. I also manage the house, cook, do laundry, and clean up after our two cats, who shed like they’re in a fur factory. My husband, Mason, is 34, a finance guy. He was sweet during my pregnancy, but now he barely sees me, passing Lila back the second she fusses.
Last week, our vacuum died, a crisis with cats and pale carpets. “Mason,” I said as he played video games, “the vacuum’s broken. Can you grab a new one? It’s on sale.” He didn’t look up. “Just use a broom,” he said. “My mom raised five kids with one. You’re home all day.” I was floored. “You’re kidding,” I said. He smirked. “Nope. She didn’t whine. Women were tougher then.” I swallowed my anger. “Your mom swept while holding a baby?” He shrugged. “Probably. The house is fine.”
Cat hair was piling up, but he kept going. “I can’t afford a vacuum,” he said. “I’m saving for a yacht trip with the guys. I need a break. I’m the one working.” I went silent, stung by his words. He didn’t see the sleepless nights, the endless chores, or the spit-up I cleaned. That night, with Lila asleep on me, I stared at the useless vacuum and the broom. Fury rose. I grabbed the broom and snapped it in two.
The next day, I texted Mason at work. “Busy?” I asked. “Meetings all day,” he replied. “Perfect,” I said. I buckled Lila, fresh from a diaper disaster, into her car seat, grabbed the broken broom, and drove to his office. Lila screamed the whole way, and I was a wreck—spit-up on my clothes, exhaustion in my eyes. I carried Lila and the broom into his shiny office building. The receptionist gaped. “I’m Mason’s wife,” I said, grinning. “He needs something.” She let me pass.
I walked into Mason’s meeting, Lila wailing. He was joking with colleagues until he saw me. His face dropped. “What’s this?” he asked, standing. I placed the broken broom on the table. “I tried sweeping like your mom,” I said, holding Lila. “It broke. Should I use my hands now, or can we get a vacuum?” The room went quiet. A coworker stared at his phone. Mason stammered, “Let’s talk outside,” pulling me out.
In the hallway, he snapped, “You humiliated me! That was a big meeting!” I smiled. “I thought sweeping was simple. I’m just following your advice.” He groaned. “Okay, I’ll buy the vacuum.” I shook my head. “Already got it. Your card.” I left, Lila crying, broom in tow.
That night, Mason came home quiet. As I fed Lila in the dim living room, he sat down, hands clasped. “I talked to HR,” he said. “About us. The stress.” I raised an eyebrow. “You said I embarrassed you because I’m tired?” He sighed. “I didn’t mean to brush you off. Work’s hard too.” I looked at him. “Be a husband, Mason, or be a guest. Choose.” He nodded, wordless.
The yacht trip vanished. Mason vacuumed the house twice, tackled diapers, and took night feedings, even when Lila screamed. He walked her one morning, leaving a note: “Sleep. I’m on it.” I didn’t gloat. The broken broom stays in the hall, a quiet reminder of the lesson he learned.
