A Drop of Water Taught Him
A single drop fell from the tap, landing squarely in the dried yolk of yesterday’s scrambled eggs—tick, tick, tick.
Eleanor stood frozen by the sink, gripping the sponge. The frying pan stared back at her accusingly, rimmed with congealed grease and crumbs. Beside it, a plate smeared with butter, a mug with a coffee stain, a knife sticky with jam. Edward had already left for work in his battered Ford, leaving behind the usual breakfast mess—another still life waiting for her hands, as it had every morning for the past three years.
“Again,” Eleanor thought, twisting the tap. Hot water hissed, frothing soap in the pan. She scrubbed mechanically. Three months ago, she’d first asked Edward to help with the dishes. He’d looked up, bewildered, as if she’d suggested he paint the Sistine Chapel or learn Mandarin.
“Ellie, it’s nothing,” he’d said, eyes glued to the football match. “Five minutes, tops.”
Five minutes. Every morning. Every evening. She scrubbed harder, tallying the hours—thirty a year. A full workweek spent at the sink.
The pan resisted. Stubborn grease clung to the Teflon. She scraped, recalling last night—Edward sprawled on the sofa, scrolling through his phone while she cleared the remnants of their shared meal alone.
“Eddie,” she’d ventured, careful not to sound accusatory, “maybe wash your plate?”
His thumb kept swiping. “Later… You know how mad work’s been.”
Work. Always work. Clients, deadlines, chaos. As if her accounting job—modest but full-time—was a holiday. She rinsed the pan, moving to the mug. Coffee dregs had thickened into sludge.
It wasn’t the chore itself—ten minutes’ labour. It was his blindness to it. To him, dishes vanished like magic, laundry folded itself, dinners materialised. The house ran on autopilot—electricity in the sockets, meals on the table, no questions asked.
“I need help,” she’d said a week later, gesturing to the soup-crusted stockpot he’d abandoned. “Not money. Just… notice what I do.”
Edward had blinked, genuinely perplexed. “What’s the fuss? It’s a minute’s work!”
A minute. In his mind: rinse (thirty seconds), scrub (thirty more). Never the prelude—clearing sludge, waiting for hot water, fetching clean towels. Never the domino effect of pots, plates, cutlery.
That night, watching him snore, she’d wondered: *What if I stop?*
Not spitefully. Just… stop. Let him see “a minute’s work” unfold in real time.
Next morning, she fried toast, drank coffee, left her mug unwashed—and went to work.
By evening, two mugs sat in the sink. Edward fetched a clean one, unfazed.
“How was your day?” He pecked her cheek.
“Fine,” she said, watching him grab a yoghurt—and a clean spoon.
On day three, the dish tower grew. He rinsed a plate, reused it. On day five, he unearthed a granny’s vintage tumbler from the cupboard. Then—with reverence—a wedding-china plate, gold-rimmed, reserved for birthdays.
No complaints. Just furtive glances at the overflowing sink.
By week’s end, the kitchen was a museum of neglect. The stench of sour milk mingled with buzzing flies. Edward tiptoed around like a minesweeper, finally eating salad from a child’s plastic plate—pink, with cartoon bunnies.
Eleanor breathed easier. For once, she wasn’t the invisible maid.
“ELLIE!” Edward bellowed on day seven, grocery bag in hand. “What the hell’s happened here?”
She stirred lentils, serene. “Living.”
“Living? It’s a pigsty! It reeks!”
“I stopped. You said it’s a minute. Prove it.”
His fury faltered. He gaped at the sink—the crusted pans, the fungal mugs—then at her. Understanding dawned.
“Christ,” he whispered. “It was always… like this?”
“Worse. Because I cleaned it. Daily. Your ‘five minutes’.”
He rolled up his sleeves.
Three hours later, the kitchen gleamed. Their hands were raw, their backs ached.
“New rule,” he said, drying the last glass. “Whoever dirties it, washes it. No stacks.”
“No stacks,” she agreed.
“And—remind me if I forget. Just no more… sieges. I’ll have a heart attack.”
Eleanor smiled. “Deal.”
