I Gave My Husband a Reality Check after He Pretended to Be Stupid to Avoid Housework

When I overheard my husband advising his friend to deliberately botch household chores, I felt a surge of anger. That moment marked the beginning of a transformation in our marriage, one where I decided to confront his weaponized incompetence by treating him like the child he was pretending to be.

I slumped on the couch, feeling utterly exhausted. I had just finished vacuuming the living room for the second time today. Mike had tried to help earlier, but as usual, his attempt was half-hearted and sloppy.

"Why can't he just do it right the first time?" I muttered to myself, shaking my head.

Balancing a full-time job and managing most of the household chores was wearing me down. Every day, I juggled work, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of our two kids. It felt like I had three children, not two. Mike seemed to be getting more and more useless around the house. Whenever I asked for help, he'd respond, "I don't know how to do it," and continue relaxing on the couch.

Even when he did help, it was always a mess. One evening, after a long day at work, I came home to find the kitchen in complete disarray. Mike stood at the sink, half-heartedly scrubbing a pot.

"Mike, can you please load the dishwasher?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

"I don't know how to arrange everything," he replied with a sigh, dropping the pot with a loud clatter.

"Just put the plates and silverware in," I said, already feeling the familiar frustration.

He grabbed a handful of utensils and tossed them into the dishwasher, not bothering to separate or rinse them. Plates were stacked haphazardly, some still with chunks of food clinging to them.

"Mike, they won't get clean like that," I said, pointing at the mess.

He shrugged. "It's good enough."

One evening, after a particularly frustrating day, I overheard Mike on the phone. He was talking to his friend, laughing.

"Dude, just do whatever she asks you to do so badly that she'll never bother to ask again. Works for me!" he said.

I felt my blood boil. His incompetence wasn't accidental. It was deliberate.

Enough was enough. I wasn't going to let Mike get away with this anymore. If he wanted to act like a child, I'd treat him like one.

The next morning, I put my plan into action. I left the dirty dishes in the sink after Mike's poor attempt at cleaning them. When he came into the kitchen, I pointed at them.

"Mike, look at these dishes. They're still dirty. You need to do them again," I said firmly.

He groaned. "But I already washed them."

"Well, you didn't do it right. Do it again," I insisted.

He grumbled but started washing the dishes again. I watched, making sure he did it properly this time. I wasn't going to let him off the hook.

Later that day, Mike came home from work and threw his shirt on the floor. I didn't pick it up. The next morning, I handed it back to him.

"You can wear this again," I said. "You didn't put it in the laundry, so I didn't wash it."

He looked confused. "But it's dirty."

"Then put it in the laundry basket next time," I replied.

Throughout the week, I continued my plan. If Mike failed to do something right, I let him deal with the consequences. If he didn't cook dinner, we didn't eat. If he didn't clean up, the mess stayed.

One evening, I called Mike's best friend, Dave.

"Hey, Dave, can you come over? There are a few things around the house that need fixing, and Mike hasn't had time to do them," I said sweetly.

Dave agreed and came over that weekend. Mike looked embarrassed as Dave fixed the leaky faucet and the broken door hinge. I could see the shame on Mike's face, but I didn't feel sorry for him.

As the days passed, Mike's frustration grew. He couldn't understand why everything was suddenly so difficult. Each morning, he faced the consequences of his negligence. He went to work with wrinkled clothes because I refused to iron his shirts. He ate cereal for dinner because he didn't prepare a meal. Our kids even began to notice his incompetence.

"Dad, why are you eating cereal again?" our daughter asked one evening.

"Because I didn't cook dinner," he mumbled, avoiding my gaze.

The embarrassment started to get to him. He couldn't keep up with the simplest tasks, and it showed. His coworkers began to comment on his appearance and his lack of focus at work.

"Dude, you look like you haven't slept in days," one of his friends remarked.

Mike just nodded, too ashamed to explain. The household was falling apart around him, and he realized he had no one to blame but himself. But it wasn't just the embarrassment that wore him down; it was the realization that I had stopped covering for him.

One Saturday morning, I decided it was time for the next step. I called his mother, Carol.

"Hi, Carol. I need your help. Mike doesn't know how to cook properly. Could you come over and teach him?" I asked.

Carol sounded surprised but agreed. When she arrived, Mike turned red with embarrassment.

"Mom, you don't need to be here," he said, avoiding eye contact.

"Yes, she does, Mike. You need to learn," I said sternly.

Carol spent the afternoon teaching him basic cooking skills. Mike struggled to follow her instructions, his frustration evident. I watched, feeling a mix of satisfaction and hope. Maybe this would finally get through to him.

As the days went on, the pressure mounted. Mike became more irritable and worn out. One evening, after another failed attempt at making dinner, he broke down.

"I can't do this anymore," he said, tears streaming down his face. "I don't know how you manage everything, Sarah. I've been so selfish."

I felt a pang of sympathy but also a sense of relief. Finally, he was starting to understand.

"You've been taking me for granted, Mike. This isn't just about chores. It's about respect and partnership," I said gently.

He nodded, wiping his tears. "I know. I'm so sorry, Sarah. I'll do better. I promise."

The next morning, Mike woke up early and made breakfast. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start. He began to take more responsibility around the house. He asked for guidance instead of giving up. Slowly but surely, things began to improve.

"Sarah, can you show me how to sort the laundry properly?" he asked one day.

"Of course," I replied, showing him the basics.

Our relationship started to heal as we worked together. The kids noticed the change too.

"Dad, you made dinner! And it's good!" our son exclaimed one evening.

Mike smiled, a genuine smile that I hadn’t seen in a while. "Thanks, buddy. I had a good teacher."

The more he tried, the more my respect for him began to return. I saw the effort he was making and the sincerity in his actions. He was becoming the partner I needed, and it felt good to share the load.

As weeks turned into months, our household ran smoother. Mike wasn’t perfect, but he was trying, and that made all the difference. We laughed more, argued less, and felt like a team again.

One evening, as we sat together after putting the kids to bed, Mike took my hand.

"Thank you for not giving up on me," he said softly.

I smiled, squeezing his hand. "Thank you for finally stepping up."

We had a long way to go, but for the first time in a long time, I felt hopeful. Together, we were rebuilding our relationship, one day at a time.

My Son Became Quiet after Coming Home from School – Then His Classmates Sent Me Videos

We moved to a new city after my husband got a job offer he couldn't refuse. Our son, Mike, who's 9, started at a new school. At first, everything seemed perfect. Mike seemed happy, making new friends. But then things changed.

Mike became very quiet. I even heard him crying sometimes.

"What's wrong, Mike?" I asked him one evening, as he wiped tears from his cheeks.

"Nothing, Mom," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just miss our old home."

I thought maybe that was it. Moving can be tough on kids. So, I stayed close to him, hugging him, supporting him. But my worry didn't go away.

One day, I found some of Mike's drawings. They were strange, filled with dark scribbles and figures that looked frightened. His notebooks were torn and messy. My heart sank. Something was very wrong.

Yesterday, when I went to pick him up from school, two of his classmates ran up to me.

"Are you Mike's mom?" one of them asked, out of breath.

"Yes," I said, a bit confused.

"You need to see these videos," the other one said, holding up a phone. "Let us send them to you."

I nodded, unsure of what to expect. A few moments later, my phone buzzed with new messages. I opened the first video. What I saw made me speechless. My blood boiled with anger.

Want to know what happened next? Click here to read the rest of the story.

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.