When our vacuum broke, my husband said I should just sweep since I’m “home all day anyway.” So I took our newborn and a broken broom and went to his office to show him what that really looks like.
I’m 30. I just had my first baby, a sweet little girl named Emma. She’s 9 weeks old, and yeah—she’s perfect. But also? She’s chaos. She cries like she’s in a scary film. Hates naps. Hates being set down. Pretty much stays in my arms.
I’m on unpaid maternity leave, which sounds nice until you realize it’s a 24/7 job with no help, no breaks, and no pay.
I’m also managing the house. And the washing. And the cooking. And the litter boxes. We have two cats, both shedding like it’s their main job.
My husband James is 34. He works in finance. Used to be caring. When I was pregnant, he made me tea and massaged my feet. Now? I’m not sure he sees me. I’m the woman who hands him the baby so he can say “she’s cranky” and hand her back five seconds later.
Last week, the vacuum quit. In a house with two cats and beige carpet, that’s like losing air.
“Hey,” I told James while he was on his Xbox. “The vacuum’s dead. I found a good one on sale. Can you pick it up this week?”
He didn’t look up. Just paused his game and said, “Why? Just use a broom.”
I blinked. “Really?”
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 stared at him.
“You’re not kidding,” I said.
“Nope.” He smirked. “She didn’t complain.”
I let out a strange laugh. Half choking, half hurting inside.
“Did your mom also hold a crying baby while sweeping with one arm?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Probably. She managed. Women were tougher then.”
I took a breath. Tried to stay calm. “You know the baby’s crawling soon, right? Her face will be in this carpet.”
Another shrug. “The place isn’t that bad.”
I looked around. There were actual cat fur balls in the corner.
“And anyway,” he added, “I don’t have extra cash now. I’m saving for the 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 earning money now. It’s tiring.”
That’s when I stopped talking. What could I say?
“You haven’t changed a diaper in days?” “You sleep while I pump milk at 3 a.m.?” “You think cleaning spit-up off a onesie is relaxing?”
I didn’t say any of it. I just nodded.
Apparently, raising a child is a holiday now, and the woman doing it doesn’t need a working vacuum. That night, after Emma fell asleep on my chest, I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell.
I just sat in the hallway. The light was off, but the soft glow from the nightlight hit the baby monitor just right. It was quiet. Too quiet.
I looked at the broken vacuum. Then at the broom.
I got up. Took the broom in both hands. Snapped it in half.
The next morning, while James was at work, I texted him.
“Busy day at the office?”
“Yeah. Back-to-backs. Why?”
“Oh. No reason. I’m just coming over.”
I packed Emma into the car, still red-faced from her morning meltdown. I tossed the broken broom in the back.
And I drove.
I pulled into the parking lot of James’s office with Emma crying in the back like I’d strapped her into a rocket instead of a car seat. She’d just soiled her diaper on the drive, and she wasn’t shy about letting me know how she felt.
Perfect.
I wiped spit-up off my shirt, threw a burp cloth over my shoulder, grabbed the broken broom, and unbuckled the baby.
“Alright, Emma,” I muttered. “Let’s go say hi to Daddy.”
His office building was all glass and steel and fake smiles. I walked in with a red-faced baby in one arm and a jagged broom handle in the other.
The receptionist blinked twice when she saw us.
“Can I help—?”
“I’m James Thompson’s wife,” I said, smiling wide. “He forgot something important at home.”
“Oh. Um. Sure. He’s in a meeting, but you can go back.”
I walked past her desk like I owned the place.
Emma started crying again just as I turned into the conference room. There was James. Sitting at a long glass table with four coworkers, chuckling about something on a spreadsheet like he didn’t have a wife falling apart at home.
He looked up. His face went pale.
“Babe—what are you doing here?” he said, standing up fast.
I walked in and laid the two snapped broom pieces gently on the table in front of him.
“Honey,” I said, shifting Emma 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 the most interesting thing ever.
I looked around 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?”
James looked like he might faint. His eyes darted between me, the broom, and his coworkers. His jaw opened and closed like he couldn’t pick which problem to fix first.
“Can we talk outside?” he said, his voice sharp and low, already standing.
“Of course,” I said with a smile.
He yanked the door closed behind us hard enough that the glass shook.
“What was that?” he hissed. His face was bright red, all his calm corporate charm gone.
“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 part of the job. Housewife stuff. What’s the problem? I’m just doing what you said.”
He ran a hand over his face, frustrated. “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, Emma still crying, broom handle still under my arm.
James got home that night quieter than usual. He didn’t toss his shoes in the hallway. Didn’t drop his keys on the counter like usual. Didn’t even look at the Xbox.
I was on the couch feeding Emma. The living room was dim except for the glow from a floor lamp and the soft hum of the white noise machine in the corner. He sat across from me, hands folded like he was waiting to be called to the principal’s office.
“I talked to HR today,” he said.
I looked up slowly. “HR?”
He nodded, staring at the carpet like it had answers. “Yeah. About our… situation. I said we were adjusting. Stress at home. No sleep. You know.”
I blinked at him. “You mean, you told your job your wife embarrassed you because she’s tired and doesn’t have a vacuum?”
He rubbed his neck. “That’s not what I said. I just… I didn’t mean to be dismissive, okay? I’ve got a lot going on too.”
I let a beat pass. Emma made a soft grunt in her sleep.
I didn’t yell. Didn’t raise my voice. I just looked at him and said, calm as ever, “James, you’re either a husband and a father, or a roommate with a guilt complex. You decide.”
He opened his mouth like he might argue. Then closed it. Just 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. Pretty sure “the guys” didn’t even know it was planned.
That week, he vacuumed every rug in the house—twice. He looked like he was battling the dust bunnies. Didn’t say a word about it.
He changed three diapers without being asked. Took the 3 a.m. bottle shift two nights in a row, even when Emma screamed in his face like she knew he was new at it. He paced the hallway with her until she passed out on his shoulder.
He even took her for a walk Sunday morning so I could nap. Left a sticky note on the bathroom mirror that said, “Sleep. I’ve got her.”
I didn’t gloat. Didn’t say “told you so.” Didn’t mention the office.
But the broken broom? Still sitting in the hallway, right where I left it. Just in case he forgets.
