A drop of water fell from the tap, landing precisely on the dried remains of scrambled eggs—drip, drip, drip.
Emma stood frozen by the sink, gripping a sponge. Yesterday’s frying pan glared at her reproachfully, framed by streaks of grease and breadcrumbs. Nearby sat a plate smeared with butter, a coffee mug with its telltale ring, a knife sticky with jam. Tom had already left for work in his battered Ford, leaving behind his usual breakfast mess—all of it waiting patiently for her hands, as it had every morning for the past three years.
*Again*, she thought, mechanically turning on the tap. Hot water hissed, foaming over the pan’s surface. She soaked the sponge, squeezed out a drop of washing-up liquid, and got to work.
Three months ago, she had first asked Tom to help with the dishes. His eyebrows had shot up as if she’d suggested he repaint the Sistine Chapel or learn Mandarin.
“Emma, it’s hardly anything,” he’d said, eyes still glued to the football match on TV. “Five minutes, tops.”
Five minutes. Every morning. Every evening. Emma scrubbed, mentally tallying it up: over a year, those “five minutes” added to thirty hours—a full workweek spent at the sink.
The pan resisted. The burnt-on grease demanded a scraper and elbow grease. As she attacked the stubborn stains, she recalled last night—Tom sprawled on the sofa scrolling through his phone while she single-handedly tackled the aftermath of their meal.
“Tom?” she’d ventured, careful not to sound accusing. “Could you wash your plate?”
He hadn’t looked up. His thumb flicked past memes, cats, endless faces.
“In a sec,” he muttered absently. “Rough day at work.”
*Rough day*. His days were always rough. Projects on fire, clients calling, deadlines looming.
And her? Some kind of holiday? She worked too—office accounting, modest pay, but eight hours a day, same as anyone.
She rinsed the pan and turned to the coffee mug, its dregs a sludge of brown. Why did this bother her so much? It wasn’t about the dishes—ten minutes’ work. It was that Tom simply *didn’t see* her effort.
To him, dirty plates vanished on their own. Clean ones appeared as if by magic. Laundry transformed from washer to ironed shirts. The fridge restocked itself into hot dinners. Dust evaporated, floors stayed spotless without a mop.
In his world, housework happened like electricity—flip a switch, there’s light. Turn a tap, water flows. Come home—clean, tidy, dinner ready.
“I need help,” she’d said a week later, staring at the soup pot he’d abandoned. “Not money, not gifts. Just… notice what I do. Pitch in.”
Tom had looked up from his laptop, genuinely baffled. “What’s the big deal? It’s two minutes! My whole project’s burning, and you’re on about a *pot*?”
Two minutes. She studied his face—open, irritated, utterly sincere. He *meant* it.
To him, washing a plate was thirty seconds under the tap, another thirty with a sponge. Never mind clearing the sink first, waiting for hot water, scrubbing baked-on grease, drying, putting away. What if it wasn’t one plate, but twenty? Plus mugs, pans, cutlery, wiping surfaces, taking out the bin?
That night, listening to his steady breathing, she turned the thought over: *What if I just… stop?*
Not out of spite. Just—cease doing what he called “two minutes’ work.” Let him see for himself.
Next morning, she made coffee, toast, ate, and left for work—ignoring the sink. Tom’s unwashed mug sat by his crumb-strewn plate.
All day, she wondered: *Will he wash it? Complain? Not even notice?*
By evening, two mugs sat in the sink, plus dinner plates. Tom fetched clean ones wordlessly.
“How was your day?” He kissed her cheek.
“Fine,” she said, watching him take a yoghurt from the fridge—and a clean spoon from the drawer.
Day two: more dishes piled up.
Day three: a precarious tower of plates. Tom rummaged through cupboards, unearthing spares.
Day four: he reused a single mug for tea and coffee. Rinsed his breakfast plate—then put it straight back.
Day five: he dug out a granny’s old pint glass, then—hesitantly—a plate from their wedding china, reserved for special occasions.
He held out gallantly—no complaints, just careful movements, eyes lingering on the overflowing sink.
Day six: pans joined the pile. He fried eggs in a tiny crepe pan—the only one not buried under grease.
Day seven: the kitchen stank—sour milk, old food, the first flies buzzing.
Tom tiptoed around like a bomb-disposal expert. Finally, he ate salad from a child’s plastic plate—pink, with cartoon bunnies.
For the first time in three years, Emma didn’t feel like the unpaid staff. Let the kitchen look like a horror set—at least Tom couldn’t pretend mess disappeared on its own.
*How long till he cracks?* she wondered, stirring pasta in the only clean pot left.
That evening, footsteps thudded—then Tom burst in, groceries in hand, eyes wild.
“What the *hell* is going on?” His face flushed with outrage. “This place is a *tip*!” He gagged. “It *stinks*!”
Emma stirred her pasta calmly. “I’m just living.”
“Living like *this*? It’s a bloody health hazard!”
“Your call,” she said. “You said it was two minutes. Wash it yourself.”
“How?! I can’t even find a *clean spoon*!”
“Exactly.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Anger gave way to confusion—then dawning horror.
“Wait… has it *always* been this bad?”
“No.” She met his gaze. “Because I cleaned up. Every day. Every ‘two minutes’ you never noticed.”
Tom stared at the carnage—really *saw* it. The labour behind each wiped surface, each scrubbed pan.
“Christ,” he whispered. “I *actually* didn’t get it. I thought… one plate, it’s *nothing*.”
“One plate is nothing,” she agreed. “Twenty plates, ten mugs, pans, cutlery, wiped counters, bins out—how many minutes is *that*?”
He swallowed. Then rolled up his sleeves.
“Right. Let’s sort this mess.”
They cleaned in silence, elbows bumping. Tom attacked a pot like it owed him money.
“This is *disgusting*,” he groaned, scraping fossilised egg. “What’s this green stuff?”
“Your leftover peas from Tuesday.”
He shuddered.
Three hours later, the kitchen gleamed. Their backs ached, hands raw from scrubbing.
“New rule,” Tom said, drying the last mug. “You use it, you wash it. No leaving it.”
“Deal.”
“And—if I slack off, *tell* me. Just… no more *sieges*.”
Emma smirked.
“Agreed.”
Sometimes, the only way to be seen is to stop being invisible.
