The Unpaid Maid Strikes Back

My husband had selective hearing. I told him to toss the wet clothes from the washer into the dryer, and he couldn't hear me.

I told him to load the sink full of dishes into the dishwasher, and he couldn't hear me either.

I screamed at him, my throat raw, while he just stared at me like I was losing my mind. And then he dropped the classic line: "I never said I wasn't going to do it.

Why are you acting so crazy?" Eventually, I got tired. I decided to copy his selective hearing. Only this time, he was the one who lost his mind.

Chapter 1 After dinner, I took my son, Jude, to get washed up.

Before heading to the bathroom, I made sure to remind Brooks: "Make sure you empty the dirty plates from the sink into the dishwasher, and wipe down the kitchen island." He didn't even look up from his phone, just gave a grunt of acknowledgment.

But when I walked out of the bathroom after getting Jude cleaned up, the kitchen was still a total disaster zone.

Brooks was sprawled out on the couch, glued to his screen, letting out a chuckle every few seconds. "Brooks, didn't I tell you to do the dishes?" I asked, my jaw tightening.

Brooks kept his eyes locked on the screen, his thumbs flying. "I know, I know. Chill out." He brushed me off, so I bit my tongue.

After putting Jude to bed, I stepped out of the bedroom. The plates were still sitting right where we left them. I glanced at Brooks, still happily scrolling on the couch.

He was a grown man. I shouldn't have to beg him three times to do a simple chore. If I kept nagging, he'd probably just dig his heels in deeper.

I swallowed the words burning in my throat and went to bed. When I got up the next morning to make breakfast, the dirty dishes greeted me.

The grease had dried overnight, crusting over the plates and sticking to the island—disgusting and impossible to scrub off easily.

I thought about how I had specifically told Brooks to clean the island and load the dishwasher. Instead, he had scrolled on his phone from six o'clock until God knows when.

He had all the time in the world for his phone, but zero time for a simple chore. My blood boiled.

I scraped the plates, loaded the dishwasher, scrubbed the island, and then cooked breakfast. By the time Brooks dragged himself out of bed, I was already eating.

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, breakfast?" He plopped down right across from me and started happily digging in. "Brooks." I took a deep breath, trying to push down the heat rising in my chest. "Did I or did I not remind you twice yesterday to do the dishes?

Because I woke up this morning to find everything exactly where we left it." Brooks didn't say a word, just kept shoveling food into his mouth.

I slammed my fork down on the table, glaring right at him. Brooks caught my stare and finally looked up with a goofy grin. "Aw, I just forgot. Look at you, getting all mad.

Don't worry, I'll definitely do them next time. Promise!" Looking at his unapologetic, grinning face, a wave of exhaustion washed over me. After breakfast, I got up to wake Jude.

Before I walked away, I told Brooks to toss the wet clothes from the washer into the dryer and start it once he finished eating.

This time, he nodded confidently. "Mission accepted." I figured after yesterday's mess and me actually losing my temper, he'd get it done. It wasn't even a full load of laundry.

Tossing them into the dryer would literally take ten seconds. After getting Jude dressed and ready, I didn't even bother checking the laundry room.

I grabbed Jude's backpack and headed out the door. I dropped him off at daycare, then drove straight to the office. When I got home that evening, the house was dead quiet.

I didn't hear the hum of the dryer. My stomach dropped. I marched straight to the laundry room and popped the washer lid open. A sour, mildewy stench hit me instantly.

The clothes I washed this morning were still sitting there in a damp, wrinkled pile. They had been sitting wet all day and reeked.

I had no choice but to start the cycle all over again. Chapter 2 The second Brooks walked through the door, he collapsed onto the couch and glued his eyes to his phone.

Our house has an openconcept kitchen connected to the living room. The piercing chime from the laundry room signaled the wash cycle was done, yet he acted like he couldn't hear it.

I stood by the kitchen island and yelled over the noise. "Brooks, the wash is done! Put them in the dryer!" Zero response. I leaned out from the kitchen and tried again. "Brooks!

The dryer!" Still nothing. I gripped my silicone spatula, marched out of the kitchen, and planted myself right in front of him. I blocked the TV screen and kicked his ottoman hard.

He slowly dragged his eyes away from his screen, his jaw tight. "I heard you, I heard you. I heard you the first time you said it." "It's just tossing clothes in the dryer.

I'll get to it in a minute." My blood pressure spiked. "You'll get to it? Didn't I tell you to do it this morning before I left?

Did you do it?" I demanded. "I came home and found those wet clothes rotting in the washer. They reeked, Brooks." Brooks clicked his tongue. "I just forgot. Run the cycle again.

It's not a big deal, I don't know why you're having a meltdown." His nonchalant shrug made my skin crawl, like I was the crazy one for expecting basic decency.

I squeezed the spatula handle. "Put them in the dryer. I have to finish cooking." Brooks didn't say a word. I turned around and went back to the stove.

By the time I plated the food and brought it out, the clothes were still sitting in the washing machine. The couch was empty.

I glanced down the hall and saw the bathroom door shut tight. Perfect. He was hiding in the bathroom. I wasn't going to wait around for him to grace us with his presence.

I walked into the laundry room, shoved the damp pile into the dryer myself, and slammed the door shut.

By the time Brooks finally emerged from his bathroom exile, the dryer was already tumbling. He gave a halfscoff, entirely ignoring me, and pulled out his chair at the dining table.

He immediately started shoveling food into his mouth, his phone propped against a glass, blasting a TikTok video at maximum volume. Jude is only three.

He absorbs everything like a sponge.

He watched Brooks tapping his screen between bites, then looked up at me. "Mommy, why does Daddy get to watch his phone at dinner, but I can't?" The best way to establish boundaries with a toddler is to model the behavior.

I kept my voice low. "Brooks, eat your dinner. Put the phone away." Brooks ignored me, his thumb swiping to the next video.

I raised my voice over the obnoxious background music of his feed. "Brooks. Put the phone down." Still nothing.

I sucked in a sharp breath and cranked my volume to the max. "Are you deaf?

I told you to put the damn phone away and eat!" Brooks rolled his eyes, his face twisting into a heavy scowl. "I got it, Jesus.

Why do you talk so much?" "You sound exactly like my mother. Sutton, don't tell me you're hitting early menopause." My nails dug into my palms until they throbbed.

Ask him to do one tiny chore, and he stalls until it's too late. Talk to him, and he acts like the house is soundproof. Were his ears broken? His legs?

Or was he just completely braindead? I refused to scream in front of our son. I forced my jaw to unclench and tried reason. "You're watching videos at the dinner table.

Jude sees that. He's going to copy exactly what you do." Brooks gave a dismissive shrug, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Then let him watch his iPad while he eats.

I'm not stopping him." Chapter 3 A knot tightened in my chest with nowhere to go. "Brooks, do you even hear yourself right now?" I snapped. "He's three.

You're letting him build these garbage habits now, what's he going to be like later?" Brooks twisted his lips into a dismissive smirk. "He won't starve to death either way.

Who cares?" I cut the conversation off right there. I fed Jude, and only after he was completely finished did I scrape together my own dinner.

The second Brooks finished inhaling his food, he was back to scrolling. "Brooks, go give Jude a bath." If he handled bath time, I could clear the kitchen, read Jude a couple of books, and have him in bed at a reasonable hour.

Brooks didn't flinch. His eyes crinkled in amusement at whatever was playing on his screen. Dead silence. I kicked his shin under the table.

He finally snapped his eyes up. "What?" he demanded, his jaw tight. "I said, go bathe your son!

Are you actually deaf?" Brooks let out a loud, drawnout sigh. "I heard you, okay?" he muttered. "Always nagging." I finished my cold food and carried the plates to the sink.

After scrubbing the pots and wiping down the counters, I walked out. Brooks was sprawled across our bed, his eyes glued to his phone.

Jude was still sitting on the living room rug, staring at cartoons. Dry as a bone. No bath. "Brooks, I told you to wash Jude.

When exactly is that happening?" Brooks shifted his weight on the mattress, adjusting his grip on the phone. Not a single word. My shoulders slumped.

It was the kind of exhaustion that settles deep in your marrow and makes your bones ache. It finally clicked. He wasn't deaf. He was weaponizing his silence.

As long as he played dumb and pretended he couldn't hear me, I'd eventually crack. I'd do it myself just to get it done. His mother had only been gone for three days.

How did he turn into this useless lump so fast? Brooks and I had a normal relationship at first. A year in, I got pregnant, and we rushed the wedding.

I had a solid career going, right on the edge of a major promotion. I refused to quit my job to become a stayathome mom, so Brooks called in his mother.

My motherinlaw was actually a big help when she first got here. For those first few months after I gave birth, she took over the cooking.

She practically raised Jude during the day, barely letting me lift a finger when it came to childcare. That lasted until this year, when Jude turned three and started daycare.

My motherinlaw packed her bags, claiming she couldn't stand the pace of city living and wanted to head back to her hometown.

Honestly, I hated to see her go, but she was the one doing us a massive favor. I couldn't exactly trap her here, so I helped her pack. But I overlooked one glaring detail.

When she lived with us, she literally plated Brooks' dinner and set it directly in front of him. When had he ever lifted a finger around the house?

Now that she was gone, he expected the exact same service. He honestly thought he could just exist, fully catered to, without doing a damn thing.

But a functioning marriage takes two people pulling their weight. If one person drags the whole load, the foundation crumbles. Right then, I made a choice.

It was time for Brooks to experience selective hearing firsthand.

I scooped Jude up, bathed him myself, read him two books, and stayed in his room until his breathing leveled out in sleep. The next morning, I cooked breakfast for two.

Just me and Jude. After eating my portion, I woke Jude up and got him fed. By the time Brooks dragged himself into the kitchen, the counters were wiped clean. No breakfast.

He stared at the empty stove. "Where's breakfast?" I ignored him, smoothly zipping up Jude's backpack.

Brooks raised his voice. "Where's my breakfast?" I gave a brief, flat "Oh" without looking up. "We ate it." "You didn't make me any?" he demanded, a heavy scowl pulling at his mouth.

Chapter 4 I gave a careless shrug. "You didn't ask me to make you any." "You—!" Brooks's face flushed a dark, ugly red.

He spun on his heel and slammed the front door so hard the picture frames rattled. Wow. He was already losing it? This was barely a warmup.

That evening, Brooks texted that he had a "department dinner" and wouldn't be home. Fine by me. The silence was a luxury.

I picked Jude up from daycare, treated him to dinner out, and let him burn off his energy at an indoor playground.

By the time we got home and I ran his bath, he was so exhausted he passed out before I could even crack open a book.

On day three, right over breakfast, I casually reminded Brooks to switch the laundry to the dryer before he left. I knew damn well he wouldn't touch it.

That was exactly why the washer only contained his clothes. Jude's and mine had been washed, dried, and folded the night before.

Sure enough, when I got home from work, the washer lid was shut tight. His clothes were still sitting in a heavy, damp pile. I didn't even blink. They were his clothes, not mine.

If he couldn't spare ten seconds to hit a button for his own laundry, I certainly wasn't going to play maid and do it for him.

The reality check hit Brooks the next morning when he realized he had zero clean clothes. His company had a strict uniform policy.

He only had two sets of work shirts—one was rotting in the washing machine, and the other he'd worn yesterday, currently reeking of stale sweat. "Sutton, why didn't you put my clothes in the dryer?" he demanded, his voice hard as he stormed into the kitchen.

I arched an eyebrow, keeping my tone perfectly flat. "Didn't I tell you to switch the laundry before you left yesterday?

You didn't do it?" Brooks choked on his words, his jaw working as he stared at me.

He obviously expected me to clean up his mess—to find the wet clothes, rerun the cycle, and dry them, just like last time.

He never anticipated that I would stop coddling him and leave his garbage sitting in the drum for twentyfour hours straight.

When he finally dragged his uniform out of the washer, the sour stench practically hit him in the face.

He gagged, pinching his nose. "Sutton, did you do this on purpose?" he snapped. "You noticed the clothes weren't dried last time.

You purposely let my stuff rot in here all day, didn't you?" The sheer audacity of this man was almost impressive. I didn't raise my voice.

I just looked him dead in the eye. "And did you purposely ignore it when I asked you to do it?" "You figured if you played dumb long enough, I'd just cave and do it for you.

So you purposely did nothing." Unable to come up with an excuse, Brooks gritted his teeth, snatched up yesterday's filthy uniform, and drove to work smelling like a locker room.

I thought maybe, just maybe, two days of dealing with the consequences of his own weaponized incompetence would force a reality check. I was wrong.

I found that out the hard way when I accidentally overheard a phone call between Brooks and his buddy. "I'm so over it, man.

It's just tiny shit, but she's always down my throat about doing it," his voice drifted out from the cracked door of the study. "She cooks, I have to do the dishes.

She does the dishes, I have to bathe our son. She puts the clothes in the washer, I have to put them in the dryer." "Like, why? Why do I have to do it?

It's barely any work, she can't just do it herself?" "When my mom lived here, she never made me lift a finger!" Whatever his friend said on the other end only wound Brooks up tighter. "You think I haven't tried that?" he scoffed, pacing heavily across the floorboards. "I tried dragging it out.

I ignored the dishes, ignored the laundry." "And guess what? The psycho stopped cooking my meals and only washed her own clothes.

It's fucking ridiculous." He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Honestly, if she hadn't gotten pregnant, do you think I ever would have married her?

I must have been cursed to end up with this." The blood roared in my ears, but my hands were entirely steady.

Every single word of his pathetic, resentful confession was permanently burned into my brain. Chapter 5 My fingernails dug so hard into my palms they almost broke the skin.

So Brooks only married me because I got pregnant. And like an idiot, I actually thought we were in love.

Especially since my motherinlaw was so great; we never had any of that classic toxic inlaw drama. Because of that, I subconsciously assumed my marriage was solid, too.

I never expected this was how Brooks actually saw me. He knew exactly what he was doing. The weaponized incompetence, the selective hearing—it was all intentional.

Since I disgusted him so much, then fine. We were done playing house. Life dragged on. After dinner that night, I scooped up Jude for his bath.

Before leaving the room, I dropped a reminder: "Make sure you load the dishwasher." He didn't even lift his head. I treated it like he heard me loud and clear.

When I came out of the bathroom later, the dining table was actually clear. I turned and walked into the kitchen. Right.

The dirty plates were just piled high in the sink, untouched. Fine. If he wasn't going to wash them, neither was I.

The next morning, I walked in to make breakfast, only to find the sink still overflowing with a crusty mountain of dishes.

I forced my jaw to unclench, woke Jude up, got him dressed, and took him straight to a drivethru for breakfast. When Brooks woke up, the house was empty.

He wandered into the kitchen looking for food, only to be greeted by the rotting pile in the sink. He knew exactly why I was pissed.

But Brooks's brain didn't operate like a normal human being's. Any other guy seeing that would realize his wife was past her breaking point and immediately start scrubbing. Not him.

He was determined to play a game of chicken until I broke. That evening, I didn't go home for dinner.

I texted him that I had to "work late." In reality, I took Jude out for pizza before heading back. Brooks had no choice but to figure out his own takeout.

For three days straight, Jude and I ate out. I only washed my own clothes and Jude's.

The dishes soaking in the sink were literally starting to grow mold, radiating a sour, garbagelike stench that filled the whole first floor. Brooks finally hit his limit.

He immediately FaceTimed his mom, holding up his phone to aggressively film the trashed house. "Mom, look at this.

You just left, and your daughterinlaw isn't even pretending to care anymore," he complained, panning the camera over the mess. "These dishes have been soaking for days, and she hasn't touched them." "The floors are sticky, and she won't mop.

And her laundry? She only washes her own stuff now." "Leaves mine completely ignored.

Tell me, what is the actual point of marrying a woman like this?" Dead silence from the other end of the line.

Brooks waited eagerly, fully expecting his mom to join in on bashing me. He was probably hoping she'd call me up and chew me out.

Then I'd come crawling back, scrubbing the house top to bottom like a good little maid. But he miscalculated. Hard.

After a long pause, his mother's voice cut through the speaker. "Why don't you do it? Is it not your house too? Aren't you standing right there doing nothing?" Brooks choked.

He stuttered, trying to find his footing. "I—I don't know how to do chores. That's supposed to be women's work anyway.

Why should I have to do it?" His mother let out a sharp laugh. "Who told you chores belong to women? If you want to play that game, then providing for the family is men's work!

Does your monthly paycheck even cover your wife and kid?" His face flushed a dull, embarrassed red. His mouth opened and closed silently before he abruptly hung up the phone.

Even after that brutal reality check, Brooks still didn't lift a single finger to clean.

Instead, he pulled up his contacts, dialed his buddy, and launched into another pathetic whining session. And his buddy gave him a piece of advice.

Chapter 6 "If your wife still refuses to do the chores, just cut off her funding," his buddy's voice filtered through the cracked door. "Make her pay for everything herself.

How much can a woman really make anyway? She’ll cave in a matter of days." I could practically hear Brooks nodding along.

Since we got married, our relationship had slowly flatlined. Especially after Jude was born, we had actually slept in separate bedrooms for an entire year.

It was my motherinlaw who eventually guilted us back into the same bed, claiming the distance would ruin the marriage.

Because of that massive disconnect, Brooks had no idea how much money I actually made.

That night, the second Brooks walked through the door, he slapped a stack of mail down on the kitchen island. "From now on, I am absolutely not paying my half of the mortgage or the household bills," he announced, his chin tipped up. "Since you refuse to cook, we'll just handle our own expenses." He stood there, waiting for me to panic.

Instead, I gave him a bright nod. "Deal." Brooks froze. He blinked, caught off guard by how quickly I agreed.

His brow furrowed, but I watched his expression shift as he rationalized it. He figured I was just putting on a brave face.

He thought I’d starve out in a few days and come crawling back, begging for his help. Eating takeout every night wasn't sustainable or healthy for Jude.

My first instinct was to just hire a deepcleaning service to scrub the house, but then I realized that would be playing right into Brooks's hands.

He'd get a spotless house without lifting a finger. Instead, I packed our bags, grabbed Jude, and moved straight into my best friend's apartment.

Honestly, her place was closer to my office anyway. I texted Brooks to let him know where we were staying. He left me on read. Fine by me.

I was more than happy to enjoy the peace and quiet. Barely a month into my stay at my friend's place, Brooks's little strike fell apart.

He showed up at her door, weighed down by an armful of expensive "I'm sorry" gifts. "Sutton, come on. We're married.

It doesn't look right for you to just live at someone else's place forever," he coaxed, flashing a strained, charming smile. "Let's go home.

I even came all the way out here to pick you up." I leaned against the doorframe, a sweet, razorsharp smile curving my lips. "Are you just here because the house is a total dump and you're missing your maid?" I took a deliberate step forward, forcing him to meet my eyes as he tried to look away.

My voice dropped to ice. "You don't want a wife.

You just want a fulltime, unpaid servant who washes your dirty underwear and still spots you half the mortgage." Brooks's face flushed an ugly, dark red.

He let out a nervous, awkward chuckle. "What? No, of course not…" "So the house is clean?" I asked, tilting my head. "That mountain of dishes in the sink.

You washed them?" His mouth clamped shut. I reached into my tote bag, pulled out a manila envelope, and shoved it against his chest. "Sign it." He fumbled to catch the papers.

His eyes skimmed the bold header, and raw panic immediately flooded his face