I got home from work, tossed my keys on the counter, and collapsed onto the sofa. It had been a grueling day, and all I wanted was a moment of quiet.
The aroma of something cooking wafted from the kitchen—warm and savory. Nora was at the stove, gently stirring a pot. Theo stood beside her on a stool, his little hands busy peeling potatoes.
Nora glanced back. “Ben, could you set the table?”
I barely looked up from my phone. “That’s your job.”
She didn’t respond right away. I heard her sigh—the same exhausted sigh I’d heard too often. Theo, of course, didn’t notice.
“I’ll do it, Mommy!” he chirped, hopping down.
“Thanks, buddy,” Nora replied with a smile.
I shook my head. “You’re gonna spoil him, you know.”
Nora stiffened, but stayed silent. Theo frowned. “What’s wrong with helping, Daddy?”
“Boys don’t do chores, kid,” I mumbled, sinking deeper into the cushions.
Theo looked at Nora, confused. She gave him a gentle pat and handed him the utensils. “Go ahead, set it up,” she said softly.
I watched as Theo carefully arranged the spoons and forks. He looked proud, like he was doing something that mattered.
The next day at work, I overheard Nora’s coworkers inviting her to their annual team retreat. Just one night—no big deal. She seemed hesitant at first. Then thoughtful.
That evening, she brought it up while I sat watching a match. “Hey, my company trip is this week,” she said. “I’m going. I’ll be back by noon the next day.”
I glanced at her. “Fine?”
“You’ll need to handle Theo and the house while I’m gone.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s no problem.”
Nora smiled—but it wasn’t her usual smile. It was the kind that hinted I was in for a surprise. “Great,” she said, then went to pack her bag. I sent a quick text to my boss saying I’d be out.
The next morning, I groaned as I glanced at the alarm clock. 7:45 AM.
Wait—7:45?!
Panic surged through me. Nora usually woke me up while getting Theo ready for school. But she was gone. And I had overslept.
“Theo!” I shouted, throwing off the blanket and stumbling down the hall. “Get up, we’re late!”
Theo shuffled out, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s Mommy?”
“She’s at her work event,” I grumbled, rummaging through drawers. “Where are your clothes?”
“Mommy picks them.”
I sighed heavily. Of course. I grabbed a wrinkled tee and pants. “Here. Put these on.”
Theo frowned. “They don’t match.”
“It’s fine,” I said, tossing them over. “Just get dressed.”
I rushed to the kitchen to make breakfast. Nora usually had something warm ready—eggs, toast, pancakes—but there was no time. I popped two slices of bread in the toaster, grabbed a juice box, and turned—just as a loud pop came from behind me.
Smoke curled out of the toaster. I hurried over, yanked out the burnt, rock-hard toast.
Theo walked in, wrinkling his nose. “Yuck.”
“Just eat an apple,” I said, setting one on his plate.
“But I wanted waffles.”
I groaned. “Theo, no time. Just eat what’s there.”
Theo sighed but took the apple anyway.
I shoved his shoes on, grabbed his backpack, and hurried him to the car.
On the way back, my stomach growled. I pulled into a fast-food drive-thru, thinking a burger would be quick. As I drove off, I took a big bite—then felt something cold and wet drip down my shirt.
I looked down. Bright red ketchup all over.
I muttered under my breath, wiping at it with napkins as I drove. Perfect.
At home, frustration building, I pulled off the shirt. Nora usually handled laundry. But she wasn’t here. How hard could it be?
I stood in front of the washer, staring like it was a mystery. Normal cycle? Quick wash? What did these even mean? I turned knobs—nothing. Pushed buttons—still nothing.
After a few minutes of struggling, I gave up and tossed the shirt aside. I’d just wear another.
Then I remembered: I had an early meeting tomorrow. My shirts needed ironing. Nora always did it. I’d seen her—just press and smooth. Simple.
I plugged in the iron, laid my best shirt across the board, and pressed down.
A burning smell hit me instantly. I lifted the iron and stared in shock. A huge hole right through the fabric.
I groaned and tossed it in the trash. Irons are the worst.
My stomach growled again. Time for lunch. I grabbed a frozen chicken pack, threw it into a pan, and turned up the heat.
Ten minutes later, smoke poured from the stove. Coughing, I pulled the pan off, staring at the charred mess. The smoke alarm blared. I waved a towel wildly until it stopped.
Defeated, I turned to the sink—but froze.
The dishwasher was packed full. The buttons were just as confusing as before.
Pressed one—nothing.
Turned a dial—still nothing.
I dropped a plate into the sink with a loud clank and sighed deeply.
I was exhausted.
This was supposed to be simple.
My dad always said chores were no big deal. He’d lounge on the couch with a drink while my mom rushed around. “Not a man’s job,” he’d say. “Women always make a fuss.”
I believed him.
Now, standing in the mess I’d made, I wasn’t so sure.
By the time I picked Theo up from school, I was drained. My head ached, my stomach was empty, and I was out of patience. I barely reacted when Theo climbed in, humming.
When we got home, he paused in the doorway. His eyes widened as he took in the mess—dishes piled high, clothes spilling over, and the smell of burnt food lingering.
Theo looked at me. “Daddy… what happened?”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I don’t know, buddy. I tried, but nothing worked.”
Instead of whining, Theo gave a small nod. “Okay. Let’s clean up.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Mommy and I do it together all the time,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He walked to the washer, picked up my ketchup-stained shirt, and tossed it in. Then he pressed the right buttons and started it like a pro.
“How did you—”
“Mom taught me.” He shrugged.
Then he went to the dishwasher, pulled out the racks, and started loading. I’d wasted half an hour earlier trying to figure it out, and he did it like he’d done it a hundred times.
I watched him wipe the counter, toss the ruined chicken, and hang a fresh towel. At six years old, my son was more capable than I was.
A lump formed in my chest.
“Why do you help so much?” I asked.
Theo grinned. “Because Mommy needs it.”
Those four words hit me harder than anything else.
Nora didn’t just want him to learn—she needed the help. Because I hadn’t been giving it.
All these years, I thought my mom was just dramatic. But watching Theo step up while I fell apart made everything clear.
Nora hadn’t been nagging. She’d been worn out. And I had been too stubborn—or too clueless—to notice.
I swallowed, looking around the now-tidy kitchen. “Theo?”
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“Thanks, buddy.”
He smiled wide. And I knew—I had to do better.
The next night, I came home to find Nora and Theo cooking. She was chopping, he was stirring something in a bowl.
Nora looked up, smiling. “Hey. How was your day?”
I stepped forward, rubbing my neck. “Better than yesterday.”
She smirked. “I bet.”
There was a pause. Then she held up a knife. “Wanna help with dinner?”
A week ago, I would’ve brushed it off and headed to the sofa. But now I saw it all clearly.
I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly, then she handed me a cutting board. I grabbed a carrot and started slicing—clumsily, but I tried. Theo giggled. Nora smiled.
We weren’t just making dinner. We were finally doing it—together.
