My Husband and I Agreed to Share Chores Equally, but He Sabotages His Part on Purpose

In their cozy Maplewood home, Sarah Jennings was getting fed up. Every chore Jake, her husband, supposedly took on ended up as another mess for her to clean. As she stared at a disastrously stained kitchen and a shrunken sweater, Sarah knew it was time for a lesson Jake wouldn’t forget.

When Jake and I got married last June, we promised to split everything right down the middle — money, decisions, and yes, even the chores. It seemed like a great plan. A real team effort, right? But months into our marriage, I started seeing cracks in our perfect plan, all thanks to Jake.

At first, I thought maybe these were just those typical newlywed mistakes. Everyone messes up a meal or shrinks a shirt at some point, right? But with Jake, it's like he’s in a league of his own.

His cooking disasters turn the kitchen into a disaster zone. And don’t even get me started on his “cleaning” that just makes everything worse. And every time something goes wrong, he just gives me this goofy smile and says, “I guess I’m just bad at this stuff. Maybe you’re better off doing it.”

Today, seeing my favorite sweater ruined was the last straw. Jake needs a wake-up call, and I’ve got just the thing in mind. But let me back up a bit to give you the full picture of how we got to this point.

After our honeymoon, we jumped straight into the daily grind, and that's when the "fun" started. Jake was enthusiastic about our arrangement at first, or so it seemed. He'd tackle his chores with a grin, but that smile quickly turned our home into a scene straight out of a sitcom—only it wasn’t funny when you're living in it.

Take his cooking days, for example. The agreement was simple: he cooks, I clean. Sounds fair, right? Well, not exactly. Jake's idea of making spaghetti involved every pot and pan we owned.

I’d walk into the kitchen to find sauce splattered all over the counters, the stove... heck, even on the ceiling once! And there I was, scrubbing tomato stains off the walls, thinking, "How does spaghetti sauce even get up there?"

You’d think Jake was auditioning for a show called 'Extreme Kitchen Makeover: Disaster Edition.' Seriously, how many pots does it take to boil spaghetti? According to him, all of them.

Plus, the way he’d fling sauce around, you’d think he was trying to paint the kitchen red. The only 'flavor' that got added was probably in the paint job he gave the walls.

After a few weeks of this, I tried to give him some tips—nothing fancy, just basic stuff like how to keep the workspace clean and maybe not use every kitchen utensil we own. But the next time around, it was the same story. It's like he had a talent for creating a mess.

And then there was the laundry. Oh, the laundry. I thought, how hard could it be to mess up laundry? Well, Jake found a way.

Seriously, mixing reds and whites? It’s like he thinks our washing machine is some kind of miracle worker that sorts colors on its own.

At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if he started a new trend—'accidental pastels' could be the next big thing! It would have been kind of funny if it weren't my work clothes that turned pink.

I tried to be patient. I really did. I showed him how to sort the clothes and which settings to use on the washing machine. But every time, something new would go wrong. It's like he was doing it on purpose, but I kept telling myself, "No, he's just learning. Give it time."

And don’t get me started on his cleaning days. The man used window cleaner on our wooden dining table. I came home to find it streaky and smelling like chemicals.

It's like he thought the window cleaner was some kind of magic elixir that could clean anything. Next thing you know, he'll be trying to fix the car with it!

He just shrugged and said, "Oops, wrong spray, I guess?" And there it was again, that grin, as if he was getting off scot-free while I googled how to fix the finish on our table.

Little did I know, the true depth of Jake's carelessness was about to come to light in a way that would change everything between us.

One evening, as I was folding laundry upstairs, I overheard Jake on a call in the living room. His voice was low, but the walls weren’t thick enough to keep his words from reaching me.

“Yeah, man, I’ve got it figured out. If I mess it up bad enough, she just takes over. It’s like I don’t even have to try anymore.” he chuckled, thinking I couldn't hear. “No more laundry or cooking disasters for me if I play it right.”

His laughter, once endearing, now felt like a slap in the face. The realization that he was sabotaging things on purpose made my hands shake with anger. I wasn't just picking up after mistakes; I was part of a calculated plan.

As I stood there, laundry in hand, a whirlwind of emotions hit me like a truck. I felt totally betrayed, not to mention completely gutted. How many nights had I spent cleaning up after him, thinking we were in this together? Turns out, I was just the punchline in his lazy joke.

I could feel the anger starting to boil up, mixing with something else—a kind of sad disappointment. It was like finding out your favorite person had been fooling you all along.

A few tears snuck out, and I wasn’t just mad but really, genuinely hurt. This wasn’t the teamwork we’d talked about. This wasn’t the guy I thought I’d married.

I had to take a couple of deep breaths to calm down, my heart pounding and my thoughts racing. What was I supposed to do now? How do you deal with finding out your partner’s been playing you?

Every time something went wrong, Jake would just throw up his hands and say, “I’m so bad at this, you do it better,” then he'd chill on the couch with a beer and the TV remote, while I cleaned up the mess he made.

But that night, after I overheard him bragging on the phone about messing up on purpose, I saw things differently. It wasn't just that he was clumsy or careless; he was doing it on purpose to avoid doing any work.

After hearing him laugh about it, I was seeing red. How long had he been playing me for a fool? The kitchen disasters, the laundry catastrophes, even messing up simple errands—it wasn't just random; it was his strategy to dodge chores.

A week later, I decided to give him enough rope to hang himself. I left him a simple list of chores and errands, thinking, "Let's see what he does this time."

I came home to find half the grocery list ignored and the dry cleaning still at the store. And the living room? I had asked him to vacuum and dust, just the basics.

Instead, I walked into a room where it looked like he had tried to vacuum, but somehow managed to knock over every single plant and picture frame in the process. Soil and broken glass were everywhere, mixed in with the dust.

"Oops, got a bit carried away," he said with that silly grin that now just got on my nerves. I was done playing nice.

Then things came to a head on the day of the sweater incident. It was an early morning rush; I was scheduled for a major meeting at work, the kind you dress to impress.

I pulled my best sweater from the dryer, only to find it two sizes too small. It was my favorite—soft, perfect fit, not too flashy. Ruined! Jake had done the laundry, and obviously, he hadn't paid any attention to the settings.

I was furious, not just because of the sweater, but because it felt like the culmination of months of these 'little accidents' that weren’t so little anymore. I needed to leave for my meeting, now running late, and had to scramble for an outfit replacement.

As I stood there, rifling through my closet for something else to wear, Jake just peeked from the living room. "Guess you’ll look good in anything, huh?" he said, trying to lighten the mood.

That was it. I whirled around, my frustration boiling over. "Really, Jake? This isn’t funny. I’m late, and my favorite sweater is ruined because you can’t follow simple instructions!"

He looked a bit taken aback, finally noticing how upset I was. "I just thought... I mean, it’s just clothes, right?"

"It’s not about the clothes, Jake! It's about you making me do all the work around here!" I shouted back, my voice filled with months of frustration.

He actually looked concerned this time. “I... I didn't think it was such a big deal. I mean, I'm sorry about the sweater.”

“Sorry doesn’t really cut it anymore,” I said, feeling my patience snap. “You’re always saying sorry, then you’re back to chilling while I fix everything. When does it end, Jake?”

He was quiet for a bit, which is rare for him. “I... I guess I didn’t really see it like that…”

“That's the problem, you don’t see it at all!' I threw the sweater onto the bed, really fed up. “And now, because you couldn’t bother to check the settings, I’m late for a really important meeting!”

Jake looked sorry and helpless, but I was past just accepting apologies. Something inside me had had enough. No more excuses, no more “Jake just being Jake.”

It was time for a big change. Jake needed a wake-up call, something to show him the real consequences of his actions—or his lack of action.

Right then, an idea hit me. If Jake's 'mistakes' were 'accidental,' maybe it was time I had some 'accidents' too. All day at work, I couldn't stop thinking about what to do, each idea bolder than the last. By the time I got home, I knew exactly what I was going to do.

I waited for Jake to leave for his basketball game, knowing I’d have the house to myself for a while. Sitting at the computer, I felt my hands shaking a bit as I logged into our online banking.

I moved almost all the money from his account into mine—just enough left so he wouldn’t hit an overdraft. Sure, it was extreme, but this was about making a point.

Then, I grabbed my purse and keys and went on a bit of a shopping spree with Jake's money. I stopped at a boutique to pick up some new dresses—replacements for the ones he’d ruined in the wash.

Then, I hit a home store to get a new frying pan and some other kitchen stuff we needed because he’d wrecked the old ones.

Shopping felt exciting, like I was finally doing something about everything. I did feel a bit guilty, but I pushed that feeling down, reminding myself of all the extra work I’d had to do cleaning up after Jake’s 'accidents.'

Just as I was pulling back into our driveway, my phone buzzed. It was Jake. He’d seen the bank alerts about the money and was freaking out.

“Hey, what’s going on? Did you see these charges? It’s like someone cleaned out my account!” Jake’s voice was tight, completely different from his usual chill self.

"Yeah, I saw them. I did it," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I mixed up our accounts a bit. Thought we could use a little excitement in our finances. It’s like a surprise party for your debit card!”

“You did what? Why would you do that?” He sounded totally thrown off.

“Think of it as a lesson, Jake. About responsibility, like those 'accidental' messes you keep making,” I shot back, feeling my nerves tighten.

“A lesson? What are you talking about?” Now he sounded upset.

“You know, the other night, I overheard you joking with your buddy about how messing up chores means I’ll just take over. I heard you, Jake. You’ve been messing up on purpose,” I said, my words sharp, cutting through the air.

There was a long pause. I wondered if he'd hung up. “You heard that, huh? I... I was just messing around."

“Messing around doesn’t ruin sweaters or destroy pans, Jake. And every time, who cleans up? Me. It’s not just little accidents. It’s every day, and it's wearing me down,” I explained, the frustration bubbling over.

“So you spent my money? On what?” His voice was quieter now, less defensive.

“On things we actually needed because of your messes. New clothes to replace what you’ve ruined, a new frying pan... It's fair, right? You make a mess, I clean it up. Maybe now you’ll get why this matters.”

Jake was silent again, taking it all in. This wasn't just about chores; it was about how we treat each other.

Finally, he said, “I... I didn’t realize how much it was bothering you. I’m really sorry. Let’s talk when I get home?”

When he walked in later, the house felt still, heavy with the chance for real change. He glanced at the bags, then back at me, seriously.

“I’ve been thinking a lot today,” he started slowly. “I didn’t realize how unfair I’ve been, just assuming you’d handle whatever mess I left. It’s not right, and I get that now.”

Hearing him acknowledge it felt like a breakthrough. "I appreciate you seeing that, Jake. We need to really share things around here."

He nodded, seeming to understand the weight of his actions. "Seeing the bank account was a shock, but I needed that. It made me feel what you've been feeling, and I'm sorry."

“That’s exactly what I needed, Jake—to feel like we’re in this together, not just me cleaning up.”

He squeezed my hand, looking sincere. “I promise, no more games. How about we start fresh? I’ll help with dinner tonight, and I’ll take care of the cleanup.”

The next morning, I stumbled into the kitchen, still half asleep, and guess what? Jake was there, washing dishes. Not just a few cups, but the whole mountain we left from last night.

He looked over his shoulder, caught my surprised look, and grinned. "Thought I’d tackle these before breakfast. You know, try to actually help out for a change."

It was just him doing the dishes, but seeing him there without being asked—it felt huge. He had everything sorted out, no soap suds on the floor, and he wasn't just slamming things around. It showed he was really trying, and that meant the world to me right then.

"Thanks, Jake. This... this is a really good start," I said, my voice catching a bit from the unexpected wave of emotion. This felt like we were actually getting somewhere, like things might just work out after all.

That night, as we made dinner together, talking and laughing, it felt like we were finally getting back on track. Not just with the chores, but with us, rebuilding trust and respect step by step.

If you liked this tale, check out another story about a husband who wouldn’t split the bills or chores with his wife—until she taught him a lesson he’d never forget.

My Husband Demands I Pay $200 for Our Takeaway Food – He Soon Regrets It

When my spouse, Peter, 40, and I, Shannon, 35, argued over who should pay for takeaway, it highlighted our financial inequalities. I earn more than Peter, which makes him less concerned about our finances.

He insisted that as the wife, my role was to cook. Since I couldn't always do that, he thought I should pay for our meals, despite our shared expenses on groceries and rent.

My recent promotion as the head of a department increased my responsibilities, including late work nights, unlike Peter, who finishes his job at 4:00 p.m.

After a day's work, I return home by 5:30 p.m., finding Peter already relaxed, watching videos or playing games. He occasionally does chores, like cleaning the bathroom once a month or doing dishes, but not without complaining.

A few months ago, Peter, under the influence of a few drinks, made a bold claim in front of friends that he was “investing all his money in my [expletive].”

That was a wake-up call for me. I started keeping a meticulous record of our expenses. I downloaded receipts for everything—groceries, phone bills, rent, Uber, holidays, plane tickets—the works, all paid by me.

Yet, Peter argued that these were my choices, although he forgot the fishing trip he dearly wanted, which I also paid for without asking him for anything.

Despite these revelations, Peter's stance didn't soften. Last month, during a vacation, he only contributed about $200 towards our monthly expenses, claiming that since he wasn’t paid for most of the month, that was all he could offer.

I didn't give him a hard time for this nor did I complain because I knew that he hadn't been paid for most of that month. However, he started working again yet Peter refused to give me anything beyond what he is currently responsible for paying.

Once back at work, he still refused to help beyond the basics of rent and bills, emphasizing that as the woman of the house, cooking should be my job.

Exhausted, I suggested he might cook sometimes, or at least heat some ready meals. He retorted, asking what the point of getting married was if he had to cook.

Last week, I dragged myself through the door after work. I've been up since 5 a.m. and worked until 7 p.m. So, I barely step foot in the kitchen, and he's like, "Hey, hun. I picked up some food. You owe me 200 bucks. Just pop it in my wallet."

I said, "Excuse me? We both eat, don't we? Shouldn't we split that at least?" Peter doubled down in his response, saying, "Nope. You're the wife. Cooking's your gig. If you're not gonna cook, you gotta pay for the food I get."

I almost hit the floor. But, I bit my tongue, thinking I had to teach him a lesson. So, the next day, when my husband asked me to go on a short trip with him to unwind, I devised my revenge.

Click here to read the full story.

These works are inspired by real events and people but have 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. These stories are provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.