he dismissed it, saying we couldn’t buy a new one until next month because he was paying for his mom’s vacation. I was furious. His mom didn’t babysit; she visited, ate, napped, and did nothing to help.

Billy’s suggestion to wash by hand felt like the last straw. I did it, but the work was backbreaking. Billy came home, ate, and ignored my exhaustion. One day, I snapped. In revenge, I packed his lunch with rocks and a note that read, “Go hunt your meal, make fire with stones, and fry it.” Billy came home furious, but I pointed out how ridiculous it was to expect me to suffer while he did nothing. He apologized, and the next day, I found a brand-new washing machine in our kitchen. Billy finally understood—and without any excuses.