My Husband Refused to Buy a New Washing Machine and Told Me to Wash Everything by Hand — Because He Promised His Mom a Vacation Instead.

Six months postpartum, drowning in piles of baby laundry, our washing machine suddenly broke down.

I told my husband, Billy, that we needed a new one as soon as possible.

His response?

“Not this month. I’m paying for my mom’s vacation. You can wash everything by hand. People used to do it for centuries, and NOBODY died from it!”

Excuse me?!

For two and a half weeks, I scrubbed clothes by hand until my fingers were raw and bleeding — all while caring for a newborn and keeping the house in order.

By the third week, I had enough. I decided it was time to teach him a lesson.

That morning, I packed his lunch like usual. But instead of his usual hearty meal, I filled his lunchbox with rocks. On top, I placed a neatly folded note.

Then I kissed his cheek, smiled, and sent him off to work.

And I waited.

At exactly 12:30 PM, Billy stormed through the front door, red-faced and furious.

“WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?!” he shouted, slamming his lunchbox onto the counter.

I calmly wiped my hands with a towel.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”

He flipped open the lid, pulled out the note, and read it aloud:

“Men used to get food for their families themselves. Go hunt your meal, make fire with stones, and fry it.”

His face twisted in rage.
“Are you out of your damn mind, Shirley? I had to open this in front of my coworkers!”

I crossed my arms.
“Oh, so public humiliation is terrible… when it happens to you?”

Billy looked like he wanted to explode, but for once, he didn’t have a comeback.

“Go on, Billy. Tell me how this is any different.”

His jaw clenched.
“This is childish.”

I let out a short, sharp laugh.
“Oh, I see. So your suffering is real, but mine is just me being childish?”

He threw his hands in the air.
“You could’ve just talked to me!”

“Talked to you? I did, Billy. I told you I couldn’t go three weeks without a washing machine. I told you I was exhausted. And you shrugged it off and told me to wash by hand. Like I was some woman from the 1800s!”

I pointed at his lunchbox.
“You thought I’d just take it, huh? Scrub and bend and bleed while you sat on the couch every night without a care in the world?”

Billy looked away.

I shook my head.
“I’m not your maid, Billy. And I’m damn sure not your mother.”

Finally, he muttered,
“I get it.”

“Do you?” I asked.

He sighed, shoulders slumping.
“Yeah. I do.”

I turned back to the sink.
“Good,” I said, rinsing my hands.
“Because I meant it. If you ever put your mother’s vacation over my basic needs again, you’d better learn how to start a fire with those rocks.”

Billy sulked for the rest of the evening.

He didn’t turn on the TV. He sat on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the wall like it had personally betrayed him. He barely touched his dinner. Every now and then, he let out a dramatic sigh — like I was supposed to feel bad for him.

I didn’t. I was perfectly fine letting him stew.

The next morning, he got dressed and left early — without saying a word.

I didn’t ask where he was going.

That evening, when he came home, he walked in with a brand-new washing machine.

No excuses. No complaints. He just installed it — plugged in the hoses, checked the settings — and when he finished, he finally looked up at me with a sheepish expression.

“I get it now.”

I nodded.
“Good.”

“I, uh… I should’ve listened to you sooner.”

“Yeah.” I crossed my arms.
“You should have.”

He picked up his phone and walked away. No arguing. No defending himself. Just silent acceptance.

And honestly? That was enough for me.