always thought housework was easy—something women just complained about. But when my wife left me alone for a day to handle everything myself, I quickly realized I was the problem.

I came home from work, dropped my keys on the table, and collapsed onto the couch. It had been a long day, and all I wanted was to relax.

The smell of something cooking drifted in from the kitchen, warm and inviting. Lucy was at the stove, stirring a pot. Danny stood on a chair beside her, his little hands busy peeling carrots.

Lucy glanced over her shoulder. “Jack, can you set the table?”

I barely looked up from my phone. “That’s your job.”

She didn’t respond right away. I heard her sigh, the same tired sigh I’d heard a hundred times before. Danny, of course, didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll do it, Mommy!” he said, hopping down from his chair.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Lucy said with a smile.

I shook my head. “You’re gonna turn him into a girl, you know.”

Lucy stiffened, but she didn’t turn around. Danny, on the other hand, frowned at me. “What’s wrong with helping, Daddy?”

“Boys don’t do housework, kid,” I said, leaning back on the couch.

Danny looked at Lucy, confused. She gave him a small pat on the back and handed him the silverware. “Go on, set the table,” she said softly.

I watched as Danny carefully placed forks and spoons on the table. He looked proud of himself, like he was doing something important.

The next day at work, I overheard Lucy’s friends inviting her to their annual conference. It was just an overnight trip, nothing big. At first, she hesitated. Then she looked thoughtful.

That night, she brought it up while I was watching TV. “Hey, my work conference is this week,” she said. “I’m going. I’ll be back by noon the next day.”

I glanced at her. “Okay?”

“You’ll need to take care of Danny and the house while I’m gone.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s easy.”

Lucy smiled, but it wasn’t her usual smile. It was the kind that made me feel like I was missing something. “Good,” she said. Then, she went to pack her bag, and I texted my boss that I would be off tomorrow.

The next morning, I groaned as I rolled over in bed, squinting at the alarm clock. 7:45 AM.

Wait. 7:45?

Panic shot through me as I bolted upright. Lucy always woke me up when she got Danny ready for school. But she wasn’t here. Because she had left. And I had overslept.

“Danny!” I shouted, throwing off the covers and stumbling into the hallway. “Get up, we’re late!”

Danny shuffled out of his room, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s Mommy?”

“She’s at work,” I muttered, yanking open his dresser drawers. “Where are your clothes?”

“Mommy picks them.”

I exhaled sharply. Of course, she did. Digging through the drawer, I pulled out a wrinkled T-shirt and some sweatpants. “Here. Put these on.”

Danny frowned. “They don’t match.”

“It’s fine,” I said, tossing them to him. “Just hurry up.”

I ran to the kitchen to throw together breakfast. Lucy always had something ready—pancakes, eggs, toast—but I didn’t have time for that. I shoved two slices of bread into the toaster, grabbed a juice box, and turned around just as a loud snap came from behind me.

Smoke curled up from the toaster. I rushed over and yanked the black, burnt, and rock-hard toast out.

Danny wandered in, nose wrinkling. “Ew.”

“Just eat a banana,” I said, tossing one onto his plate.

“But I wanted pancakes.”

I groaned, rubbing my face. “Danny, we don’t have time for pancakes. Just eat what you can, we gotta go.”

Danny sighed but peeled the banana anyway.

I shoved him into his shoes, grabbed his backpack, and got him into the car, speeding off toward school.

On the way back, my stomach growled. I spotted a drive-through hot dog stand and pulled in, figuring it was the fastest way to get something in me. As I drove home, I took a big bite, barely paying attention, until I felt something cold and sticky spread across my chest.

I looked down. Bright red ketchup covered my shirt.

I cursed under my breath, gripping the wheel with one hand while dabbing at the stain with napkins. Great.

By the time I got home, my frustration had only grown. The shirt had to be washed, and since Lucy wasn’t there to do it, I had to figure it out myself. How hard could it be?

I walked up to the washing machine, staring at the buttons and dials like they were written in another language. Heavy load, delicate, permanent press? What did any of that even mean? I turned a knob, but nothing happened. I pressed a button. Still nothing.

After a minute of fumbling with it, I huffed in defeat and threw the shirt on the floor. Forget it. I’ll just grab another one.

As I reached for a clean shirt, I remembered I had an early meeting the next day. Lucy always ironed my work shirts. It wasn’t a big deal— I’d seen her do it before. Just press the iron down and smooth out the wrinkles. Simple.