When I visited my nine-month-pregnant sister, Lily, I never expected to find her exhausted while her husband, Mark, lounged on the couch, glued to his video game. The moment I saw her struggling with chores while he acted entitled, I knew I had to do something. The next morning, I suggested he help out, only for him to scoff, “It’s a woman’s job.” Furious but strategic, I proposed a bet: if he could handle Lily’s daily tasks while wearing a weighted watermelon belly, I’d be his personal maid. If he failed,he had to step up as a husband. He laughed and accepted.What followed was pure comedy. Mark, once confident, was soon sweating, stumbling, and struggling. He could barely vacuum, load the laundry,

or even bend down without nearly tipping over. By evening, he was defeated. Collapsing onto the couch, he finally admitted, “I had no clue… I’m so sorry, Lily.” She forgave him, and from that night on, Mark transformed. He cooked, cleaned, and supported her wholeheartedly. Days later, when Lily gave birth, Mark was a devoted partner, holding her hand and weeping with joy at their newborn daughter. As I packed to leave, Lily hugged me. “You saved our marriage,” she whispered. I smiled, knowing my work here was done. But if he ever slipped? Well, there were always more fruits to teach another lesson.