I used to think housework was easy—something women exaggerated. But when my wife Lucy went away for a day and left me in charge of our son, Danny, and the house, I learned the truth.

The day started with me oversleeping. I scrambled to get Danny ready, clueless about where his clothes were or how to make a proper breakfast. I burned the toast, served a banana, and rushed him to school in mismatched clothes. My shirt got stained with ketchup, I failed to work the washing machine, and burned lunch trying to cook chicken. The dishwasher confused me. The iron destroyed my shirt. I was overwhelmed, hungry, and defeated by noon.