My Husband Refused to Help Me Buy Home Appliances, Saying I Could Do the Chores Without Them

"YOU'VE GOT TWO HANDS, DON'T YOU?" Selena’s husband refused to help her buy a dishwasher, a robot vacuum, or even a cooker, saying she didn't need them to keep the house clean. After eight years of being taken for granted, Selena finally decided ENOUGH WAS ENOUGH and gave him an unforgettable wake-up call.

What would you do if the person you loved, the one who promised to stand by you, made you feel like nothing more than a tool? Or a maid? That's the question I've been wrestling with since the day my husband, Carl, refused to help me buy the appliances we desperately needed.

A little background: I inherited my late grandmother's old house a year ago. It wasn't in great shape, but it was ours. I used every penny of my inheritance to renovate it — replacing the roof, fixing the plumbing, and updating the floors. By the time it was almost done, I was broke.

I remember standing in the kitchen one evening, staring at the worn-out countertops, my grandmother's voice echoing in my head: "A house isn't just walls and floors, sweetheart. It's the heart you put into making it a home."

"I'm trying, Grandma," I whispered to the empty room, wiping away a tear. "I'm really trying."

The house still needed a few key appliances. A multifunctional cooker, a robot vacuum, and a dishwasher — things that would make life easier, especially since I worked full-time and handled the bulk of the household chores.

I figured it wasn't a big deal — I'd ask Carl to help cover the cost. He'd just gotten a bonus at work, and I thought I'd pay him back half when my paycheck came in.

One evening after dinner, I brought it up casually. "Hey, I know you got a bonus this month. Could we use a little of it to buy the appliances we need? The house is so close to being finished, and it would mean a lot if we could get these sorted now."

He didn't even look up from his phone. "What appliances?"

"A cooker, a robot vacuum, and a dishwasher," I said. "I'll pay you back half once I get my salary. I just —"

He cut me off with a smirk. "Why do I need YOU if those things do everything I need? What would you even do then?"

I froze, staring at him. "What?"

"You don't need those gadgets," he said casually, as if he hadn't just gutted me. "You've been managing just fine without them."

"Managing fine? Do you have any idea what it's like to come home from a full day's work and spend hours doing dishes by hand? To scrub floors until my knees ache?"

He rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic, Selena. My mother never had any of these fancy gadgets, and she managed just fine."

"I'm not your mother!" I exploded, slamming my palm on the kitchen counter. "I'm your wife, Carl."

"That's what I'm saying!" he shot back, his voice sharp. "You're MY wife. You DON'T need those appliances to do the work for you!"

His words hit me like a slap in the face. My chest tightened, and I could feel tears threatening to spill, but I swallowed them down.

"Carl, I've spent months fixing this house. I've used up all my savings. I'm not asking for a lot. These are things that'll make our life easier."

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "You're overreacting. You don't need all this fancy stuff. You've got two hands, don't you?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. This was the man I'd been married to for eight years. The man who used to support me, who used to care. And now he was acting like I was asking for the moon.

That night, as I lay awake in bed, my mind replayed his words over and over:"Why do I need you if these things do everything I need?"

I thought about how hard I'd worked to make this house a home, and how much I'd sacrificed ever since Carl sold his own house to invest in that business venture — the one that failed miserably. And for what? For a husband who couldn't even help me with something so simple?

I rolled over, staring at his sleeping form in the darkness. "Remember our wedding vows?" I whispered, knowing he couldn't hear me. "You promised to be my partner, Carl. What happened to that man?"

For the first time, I started to wonder if my parents had been right. They'd warned me for years that Carl might not be the man I thought he was. "You're always giving, Selena," my mom would say. "But is he giving anything back?"

I brushed her off, convinced she was overreacting. But now, I couldn't ignore it anymore. Carl wasn't just taking me for granted — he saw me as someone who existed to SERVE him. And to cook and clean after him. And that realization lit a fire inside me.

I'll admit it: I wasn't proud of what I did next. But at the time, I was furious. And sometimes, anger makes you do stupid, petty things.

It started the next morning. Carl left for his morning walk without a care in the world, completely ignoring how much his words had stung the night before.

I sat there fuming as I stared at the four dozen eggs in the fridge, his dismissal playing on a loop in my head: "Why do I need you if these things do everything I need?"

And then an idea hit me. A petty, ridiculous, completely childish idea.

I grabbed the eggs and headed to our bedroom. One by one, I started smashing them into the pockets of Carl's t-shirts and pants. I made sure the yolk seeped into every crevice before folding each item neatly.

"How's this for having two hands, Carl?" I muttered, cracking another egg. "Is this what you wanted them for?"

When I was done, I stuffed all the ruined clothes into a black garbage bag and sealed it tight.

But I needed a place to hide it — a place where Carl wouldn't find it immediately, but the stench would still drive him insane. That's when I remembered the stitching between the backseat and the trunk of his car. The perfect hiding spot.

Grabbing a pair of scissors, I carefully ripped open the seam where the backseat met the trunk. I slid the garbage bag into the narrow space, making sure it was wedged in deep. Then, using some thread and a sewing kit I'd stashed in the kitchen, I stitched the seam closed again.

It wasn't perfect, but it was just neat enough that Carl wouldn't notice. I stepped back to admire my work, my heart racing with equal parts guilt and satisfaction.

Over the next few days, Carl started complaining about a nasty smell in his car.

"Selena," he grumbled one evening, tossing his keys onto the counter, "my car smells like something died in there."

I kept my face neutral. "Really? That's weird. Did you leave food in there or something?"

"No!" he snapped, wrinkling his nose. "I even checked under the seats, but I can't figure it out. It's disgusting. I can smell it while I'm driving."

Over the next couple of weeks, Carl grew more and more frustrated. He scrubbed the floors, sprayed half a bottle of air freshener, and even gave the car a thorough wash. But no matter what he tried, the stench only got worse.

"I can't take this anymore!" he shouted one evening, storming into the house. "My colleagues won't even carpool with me anymore. They say my car smells like a dumpster!"

I stirred my coffee calmly. "That must be so inconvenient for you, dear. Almost as inconvenient as doing everything by hand when simple appliances could help."

He shot me a suspicious look, but I kept my expression innocent. Meanwhile, I was feeling oddly… satisfied.

One night, as Carl tossed and turned in bed, grumbling about how the stench was still lingering, I decided it was time for the grand finale. I got up early the next morning, grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote:

"Why do I need you if I have these eggs? ;)"

Then, I snuck outside and stuck the note inside the trunk. If he opened it, the note would be the first thing he'd see.

Later that morning, Carl stomped into the kitchen, muttering under his breath. "I'm checking the car thoroughly one last time," he said, grabbing his flashlight. "If I can't figure it out, I'm trading it in. This is insane."

I watched him through the window as he headed to the car. He popped the trunk, and a moment later, I saw him freeze. He reached for the note, holding it up with a look of utter confusion.

It didn't take him long to find the garbage bag.

"What the hell is this?" he yelled, dragging it inside.

I crossed my arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Why don't you open it and find out?"

He untied the bag and immediately recoiled as the smell hit him. His face twisted in disgust as he pulled out one of his ruined white t-shirts, rotten yellow yolk and shells still clinging to the fabric.

"Are you insane?" he shouted. "What is wrong with you?"

I stepped forward, meeting his gaze head-on. "What's wrong with me? What's wrong with YOU, Carl? You don't respect me. You don't value me. You think I'm here to do all the work while you sit back and reap the benefits."

"This is crazy!" he sputtered, holding up the ruined clothes.

I felt something snap inside me. "No, Carl. This is about eight years of being treated like your personal maid. This is about watching you spend your bonus on golf clubs and fancy watches while I break my back doing everything around here!"

He looked stunned. "This is about the stupid appliances, isn't it?"

"This is about everything," I snapped. "You couldn't even do something as simple as helping me buy a dishwasher. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?"

"No, Carl. It's not just about the appliances. It's about how little you care. It's about how you've taken me for granted for years. Remember when we first got married? You used to help with the dishes. You used to care about making our life together better. What happened to that man?"

He fell silent, the ruined shirt still dangling from his hand.

"Well, guess what? I'm done," I snapped.

I'd spent too many years putting his needs above my own, and it was time to take my life back. That night, I packed all his things and left them by the door. It wasn't easy, but I knew I couldn't stay in a marriage where I wasn't respected.

Carl was blindsided when I filed for divorce. He tried to apologize and convince me to come back, but I didn't budge.

"Please," he begged during one of our final meetings. "I'll buy whatever appliances you want. I'll help more around the house. Just give me another chance."

I shook my head, fighting back tears. "That's the thing, Carl. It was never about the appliances. It was about feeling valued. And I deserve better than having to resort to stuffing your car with rotten eggs to make my point."

Months later, I was in my kitchen, setting up my brand-new dishwasher. I'd saved up and bought it myself, along with a multifunctional cooker and a robot vacuum. As I stood there, watching the dishwasher run its first cycle, I felt tears of pride and relief rolling down my cheeks.

For the first time in years, I felt free.

I also met someone new — a kind, supportive man who values me for who I am. And let me tell you, the difference is night and day.

"You shouldn't have to do everything yourself," he told me one evening, as we loaded the dishwasher together. "That's what partnerships are about... sharing the load."

I smiled, remembering how far I'd come. Sometimes, it takes something petty and childish to open your eyes. For me, it was a bag of eggs.

Here's another story: When Rachel's late ex-husband left her his entire estate while leaving his widow and newborn child with nothing, she was puzzled. The real reason, when it came out, left everyone utterly shaken.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.