When our vacuum cleaner broke, my husband told me I should just sweep the floors—because I’m “home all day anyway.” So I grabbed our newborn baby, picked up a broken broom, and showed up at his office to give him a little reminder of what my days really look like.

I’m 30 years old and just had my first baby—a beautiful little girl named Lila. She’s 9 weeks old, and yes, she’s absolutely perfect. But also? She’s a tiny tornado. She screams like she’s in a horror movie. She hates naps. She hates being put down. Basically, she’s glued to my arms 24/7.

I’m on maternity leave, but not the kind people think is relaxing. Mine is unpaid. That means I’m working a never-ending shift with no lunch breaks, no help, and definitely no paycheck.

On top of that, I’m also the housekeeper, the chef, the laundry service, and the cat hair wrangler. We have two cats, and both of them shed like they’re in a fur competition.

My husband Mason is 34 and works in finance. He used to be sweet—when I was pregnant, he’d bring me tea and rub my feet. These days? I feel invisible. I hand him the baby and he holds her for five seconds before saying, “She’s fussy,” and giving her back like she’s a hot potato.

Last week, our vacuum finally died. And if you have cats and beige carpet, you know—that’s a disaster.

While Mason was playing Xbox, I said, “Hey, the vacuum’s dead. I found a good one on sale. Can you pick it up this week?”

He didn’t even look up. Just paused his game and said, “Why? Just use a broom.”

I blinked at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” he said. “My mom didn’t have a vacuum when I was a kid. She raised five of us with a broom. You’ve got one. And you’re home all day.”

I just stared at him.

“You’re not joking,” I said.

“Nope,” he replied with a smirk. “She didn’t complain.”

I let out this weird laugh—half choking, half heartbroken.

“Did your mom also carry a screaming baby around while sweeping with one arm?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Probably. Women were tougher back then.”

I took a deep breath. Tried to stay calm. “You do realize the baby will be crawling soon, right? She’s going to have her face in this carpet.”

He shrugged again. “The place isn’t that bad.”

I looked around. Cat hair tumbleweeds were literally rolling across the floor.

Then he added, “And anyway, I don’t have extra money right now. I’m saving for the yacht trip next month. With the guys.”

I stared at him. “You’re saving for what?”

“The boat weekend. I told you. I need a break. I’m the one bringing in income right now. It’s exhausting.”

I didn’t say anything after that. I could have screamed, or cried, or shouted every angry thing in my head. Like: You nap while I pump milk at 3 a.m. Or You haven’t changed a diaper in days. But I didn’t.

I just nodded.

Apparently, being home with a newborn is now a “relaxing vacation,” and I didn’t even deserve a working vacuum cleaner.

That night, after Lila finally fell asleep on my chest, I didn’t cry. I didn’t even yell. I just sat in the hallway, staring at the broken vacuum and the old broom. The nightlight made the baby monitor glow like a ghost.

I got up, picked up the broom with both hands—and snapped it in half.

The next morning, I texted Mason while he was at work.

Me: “Busy day at the office?”

Mason: “Yeah. Back-to-back meetings. Why?”

Me: “No reason. I’m just on my way.”

I packed Lila into the car. She was already red-faced and screaming from her morning meltdown. She’d blown out her diaper on the way to the car and let me know how very unhappy she was about it.

Perfect.

I wiped spit-up off my shirt, tossed a burp cloth over my shoulder, grabbed the broken broom, and unbuckled the baby.

“Alright, Lila,” I whispered. “Let’s go say hi to Daddy.”

Mason’s office was one of those fancy glass buildings with shiny floors and fake smiles. I walked in carrying a red-faced, wailing baby in one arm and two jagged broom pieces in the other.

The receptionist looked stunned.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Mason Carter’s wife,” I said sweetly. “He left something important at home.”

“Oh. Um… okay. He’s in a meeting, but you can go ahead.”

I walked right past her like I owned the place.

Just as I reached the conference room, Lila let out the kind of scream that makes people think a fire alarm’s going off.

Perfect timing.

I pushed the door open and walked in.

Mason was sitting at a long glass table with four coworkers, laughing at something on a spreadsheet like he didn’t have a wife going slowly insane at home.

He looked up and froze. His face turned white.

“Babe—what are you doing here?” he asked, already getting to his feet.

I walked up to the table, laid the two broken broom pieces down in front of him, and said, “Honey, I tried using the broom like your mom did with her five kids. But it broke. Again.”

Dead silence.

One guy coughed. Another stared at his laptop like it was the Mona Lisa.

I looked around and added, “So… should I keep sweeping the carpet with my hands while holding your daughter? Or are you going to buy a new vacuum?”

Mason looked like he was going to pass out. His eyes bounced between me, the broom, and his coworkers.

“Can we talk outside?” he said sharply.

“Of course,” I said with a smile.

He slammed the conference room door behind us.

“What the hell was that?” he snapped, his face bright red. “That was a client pitch. My boss was in there!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought being a housewife wasn’t that hard. Just broom stuff. I’m doing exactly what you said.”

He ran a hand over his face. “Okay, I get it. I messed up. I’ll buy the vacuum today.”

“No need,” I said. “I already ordered one. With your card.”

Then I walked away, Lila still howling and the broom under my arm like a warrior’s sword.

That night, Mason came home… quiet.

He didn’t toss his shoes in the hallway. Didn’t turn on the Xbox. Didn’t drop his keys like he usually did.

I was sitting on the couch feeding Lila in the soft glow of a floor lamp. He sat down across from me, folding his hands like he was about to get grounded.

“I talked to HR today,” he said.

I looked up. “HR?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I told them we’re going through… an adjustment. Stress. Sleep stuff.”

I blinked. “So you told your job your wife embarrassed you because she’s tired and doesn’t have a vacuum?”

“That’s not what I said,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to be so dismissive. I’ve got a lot going on too.”

I waited a moment, then looked him dead in the eyes and said, “Mason, you’re either a husband and a father, or you’re a roommate with a guilt complex. You decide.”

He looked like he wanted to argue. Then he just nodded, lips pressed tight like he swallowed a lemon.

The next morning, that yacht trip he was planning? “Rescheduled.” I didn’t ask. Pretty sure the guys never knew it existed.

That week, Mason vacuumed every carpet in the house. Twice. He looked like he was in a battle with the dust.

He changed diapers. Took the 3 a.m. bottle shift—twice. Even when Lila screamed in his face like she was trying to test his soul.

He paced the hallway for hours until she passed out on his shoulder.

And Sunday morning? He took her for a walk so I could nap. Left a sticky note on the mirror: “Sleep. I’ve got her.”

I didn’t say “I told you so.” Didn’t bring up the office. Didn’t mention the broom.

But I also didn’t move the broken broom from the hallway.

Just in case he ever forgets again.