I always thought housework was simple—just something women exaggerated. But when my wife left me alone for a day, I learned how wrong I was.
I came home from work, dropped my keys, and collapsed on the couch. Lucy was cooking, Danny beside her peeling carrots. She asked, “Jack, can you set the table?”
I barely looked up. “That’s your job.”
She sighed. Danny chirped, “I’ll do it, Mommy!” I shook my head. “You’re turning him into a girl.”
Lucy stiffened. Danny frowned. “What’s wrong with helping, Daddy?”
“Boys don’t do housework,” I muttered.
Danny set the table anyway, proud. I didn’t get it.
The next day, Lucy mentioned a work conference. “I’ll be gone overnight. You’ll handle Danny and the house.”
“Easy,” I scoffed.
She smiled—strangely—and packed her bag. I took the day off.
The next morning, I overslept. 7:45 AM. Panic. “Danny! We’re late!”
He rubbed his eyes. “Where’s Mommy?”
“She’s at work,” I muttered, digging through drawers. “Where are your clothes?”
“Mommy picks them.”
I tossed him a wrinkled shirt and sweatpants. “They don’t match,” he said.
“It’s fine,” I snapped.
In the kitchen, I shoved bread in the toaster and grabbed a juice box. Smoke. Burnt toast. “Ew,” Danny said.
“Eat a banana,” I groaned.
“But I wanted pancakes.”
“No time.”
I rushed him to school, then hit a drive-through. One bite—ketchup exploded on my shirt.
At home, I tried the washing machine. Buttons, dials—nothing made sense. I gave up.
Then I remembered tomorrow’s meeting. I plugged in the iron, pressed down—and burned a hole through my best shirt.
Lunch? I tried chicken. Ten minutes later, smoke filled the kitchen. The alarm blared. I flailed at it with a towel.
I turned to clean up. The dishwasher was full. More buttons. More confusion. I dropped the dish in the sink and sighed.
This was supposed to be easy.
My dad always said housework was a woman’s job. I believed him. But now, surrounded by mess, I wasn’t so sure.
By pickup time, I was drained. Danny climbed into the car, humming. At home, he froze. Dishes piled high. Burnt smell lingering.
“Daddy… what happened?”
“I tried. Nothing worked.”
Danny nodded. “Let’s clean up.”
“Huh?”
“Mommy and I do it together. I’ll show you.”
He tossed my stained shirt into the washer, pressed the right buttons, and started the cycle.
“How did you—?”
“Mom taught me.”
He loaded the dishwasher like a pro, wiped counters, tossed the burnt chicken, and laid out a fresh towel.
At six, my son was more capable than I was.
“Why do you help so much?” I asked.
“Because Mommy needs it.”
Those words hit hard.
Lucy hadn’t been nagging. She’d been tired. Like my mom had been. And I’d been blind.
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks, buddy.”
He beamed.
That evening, Lucy and Danny were cooking. She smiled. “How was your day?”
“Better than yesterday.”
“I’ll bet.”
She held up a knife. “Want to help?”
A week ago, I’d have laughed. But now, I stepped forward. “Yeah. I do.”
She handed me a cutting board. I sliced a tomato—clumsy, but trying. Danny giggled. Lucy smiled.
We weren’t just making dinner. We were finally making a team.
