I got home from work, tossed my keys on the counter, and flopped onto the couch. It had been a tough day, and all I craved was a bit of peace.
The scent of something simmering drifted in from the kitchen—comforting and rich. Emily was by the stove, gently stirring a pot. Danny stood beside her on a chair, his tiny fingers busy peeling vegetables.
Emily glanced back. “Jack, could you set the table?”
I barely glanced up from my phone. “That’s your thing.”
She didn’t answer immediately. I heard her sigh—the same weary sigh I’d heard so many times. Danny, naturally, didn’t notice.
“I’ll do it, Mommy!” he chirped, jumping down.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Emily replied with a smile.
I shook my head. “You’re gonna make him soft, you know.”
Emily tensed, but didn’t respond. Danny frowned. “What’s wrong with helping, Daddy?”
“Boys don’t do chores, kid,” I muttered, leaning farther into the cushions.
Danny looked at Emily, puzzled. She gave him a gentle pat and handed him the silverware. “Go ahead, set it up,” she said softly.
I watched as Danny carefully arranged the forks and knives. He looked proud, like he was doing something that mattered.
The next day at work, I overheard Emily’s coworkers inviting her to their yearly conference. Just one night—no big deal. She looked hesitant at first. Then thoughtful.
That night, she brought it up while I sat watching a game. “Hey, my company retreat is this week,” she said. “I’m going. I’ll be back before noon the next day.”
I glanced at her. “Okay?”
“You’ll have to manage Danny and the house while I’m gone.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s nothing.”
Emily smiled—but it wasn’t her usual smile. It was the kind that said I had no idea what was coming. “Perfect,” she said, then went to pack her bag. I shot a quick message to my boss saying I’d be out.
The next morning, I groaned as I blinked at the alarm clock. 7:45 AM.
Wait—7:45?!
Panic surged through me. Emily usually woke me up while getting Danny ready for school. But she was gone. And I had overslept.
“Danny!” I hollered, throwing off the blanket and stumbling down the hall. “Wake up, we’re running late!”
Danny shuffled out, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s Mommy?”
“She’s at work,” I muttered, pulling open drawers. “Where are your clothes?”
“Mommy picks them.”
I exhaled sharply. Of course. I grabbed a crumpled T-shirt and sweatpants. “Here. Wear these.”
Danny frowned. “They don’t match.”
“It’s fine,” I said, tossing them over. “Just get dressed.”
I dashed to the kitchen to fix breakfast. Emily usually had something hot ready—eggs, toast, waffles—but there was no time. I popped two slices of bread in the toaster, grabbed a juice box, and turned—just as a loud pop came from behind me.
Smoke curled out of the toaster. I rushed over, yanked out the charred, rock-solid toast.
Danny walked in, wrinkling his nose. “Gross.”
“Just eat a banana,” I said, plopping one on his plate.
“But I wanted pancakes.”
I groaned. “Danny, no time. Just eat whatever you can.”
Danny sighed but peeled the banana anyway.
I shoved his shoes on, grabbed his backpack, and hustled him to the car.
On the way back, my stomach rumbled. I pulled into a fast-food stand, figuring a hot dog would be fast. As I drove off, I took a big bite—then felt something cold and sticky spill down my shirt.
I looked down. Bright red ketchup everywhere.
I cursed under my breath, wiping at it with napkins as I drove. Awesome.
At home, irritation boiling, I yanked off the shirt. Emily usually handled laundry. But she wasn’t there. How hard could it be?
I stood in front of the washer, staring like it was a spaceship. Delicate? Spin cycle? What did these even mean? I twisted knobs—nothing. Pressed buttons—still nothing.
After a few minutes of wrestling with it, I gave up and tossed the shirt aside. I’d just wear another.
Then I remembered: I had an early meeting tomorrow. My shirts needed ironing. Emily always did it. I’d seen her—just press and smooth. Easy.
I plugged in the iron, laid my nicest shirt across the board, and pressed down.
A burning smell hit me instantly. I lifted the iron and stared in disbelief. A massive hole right through the fabric.
I groaned and chucked it in the trash. Irons are evil.
My stomach growled again. Time for lunch. I grabbed a frozen chicken pack, slapped it onto a pan, and cranked the heat.
Ten minutes later, smoke rolled from the stove. Coughing, I yanked the pan off, staring at the blackened ruin. The smoke alarm screamed. I waved a towel wildly until it shut off.
Defeated, I turned to the sink—but stopped.
The dishwasher was jammed full. The buttons were just as confusing as before.
Pressed one—nothing.
Turned a dial—still nothing.
I dropped a plate into the sink with a loud clunk and sighed deeply.
I was beat.
This was supposed to be simple.
My dad always said chores were no big deal. He used to lounge on the couch with a beer while my mom raced around. “Not a man’s thing,” he’d say. “Women are always complaining.”
I believed him.
Now, standing in the mess I’d created, I wasn’t so sure.
By the time I picked Danny up from school, I was drained. My head throbbed, my stomach was empty, and I was out of patience. I barely reacted when Danny climbed in, humming.
When we got home, he paused in the doorway. His eyes widened as he took in the chaos—dishes stacked high, clothes overflowing, and the scent of burnt food lingering.
Danny looked at me. “Daddy… what happened?”
I sighed, dragging a hand through my hair. “I don’t know, buddy. I tried, but nothing worked.”
Instead of complaining, Danny gave a small nod. “Okay. Let’s clean up.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Mommy and I do it together all the time,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He walked to the washer, picked up my ketchup-soaked shirt, and tossed it in. Then he pressed the right buttons and started it like a pro.
“How did you—”
“Mom taught me.” He shrugged.
Then he went to the dishwasher, pulled out the racks, and started loading. I’d wasted half an hour earlier trying to figure it out, and he did it like he’d done it a hundred times.
I watched him wipe the counter, toss the ruined chicken, and hang a fresh towel. At six years old, my son was more capable than I was.
A knot formed in my chest.
“Why do you help so much?” I asked.
Danny grinned. “Because Mommy needs it.”
Those four words hit me harder than anything else.
Emily didn’t just want him to learn—she needed the help. Because I hadn’t been giving it.
All these years, I thought my mom was just dramatic. But watching Danny step up while I fell apart made everything click.
Emily hadn’t been nagging. She’d been exhausted. And I had been too proud—or too clueless—to care.
I swallowed, looking around the now-clean kitchen. “Danny?”
He looked up. “Yeah?”
“Thanks, buddy.”
He smiled big. And I knew—I had to do better.
The next night, I came home to find Emily and Danny cooking. She was chopping, he was stirring something in a bowl.
Emily looked up, smiling. “Hey. How was your day?”
I stepped forward, rubbing my neck. “Better than yesterday.”
She smirked. “I bet.”
There was a pause. Then she held up a knife. “Wanna help with dinner?”
A week ago, I would’ve laughed it off and headed to the couch. But now I saw it all clearly.
I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
Her eyebrows rose a little, then she handed me a cutting board. I grabbed a tomato and started slicing—awkwardly, but I tried. Danny giggled. Emily smiled.
We weren’t just making dinner. We were finally doing it—together.