A single drop of water fell from the tap—plink, plink, plink—onto the dried remnants of scrambled eggs at the bottom of the pan. Beth stood frozen by the sink, clutching a sponge. The frying pan from last night stared back at her, smeared with greasy streaks and crumbs. Beside it sat a plate smudged with butter, a mug stained with coffee, a knife sticky with jam.
James had already left for work in his battered Ford Fiesta, leaving behind the usual breakfast debris—as he did every morning for the last three years. “Again,” Beth thought, turning the tap mechanically. Hot water hissed as she scrubbed the pan’s stubborn residue, her fingers working automatically.
Three months ago, she had first asked James to help with the dishes. He had looked at her then as if she’d suggested repainting the Sistine Chapel or learning Mandarin.
“Beth, love, it’s just a quick job,” he’d said, eyes glued to the football match. “Five minutes, tops.”
Five minutes. Every morning. Every evening. As she scrubbed, she did the maths—those “five minutes” added up to thirty hours a year. A full workweek at the sink.
The pan resisted. Burnt yolk clung stubbornly. Beth scraped harder, remembering last night—how James had sprawled on the sofa scrolling through his phone while she cleared the wreckage of dinner alone.
“James,” she’d asked gently, “could you wash your own plate?”
He hadn’t glanced up. His thumb flicked absently through memes and cat videos.
“In a sec,” he’d murmured—without looking. “Rough day at work.”
A rough day. He always had a *rough day*. Projects burning, clients calling, deadlines looming.
And her? A holiday? A spa break? She worked too—in a small accounting firm, maybe not for the same salary, but eight hours a day, same as anyone.
She set the clean pan aside, moving to the coffee-stained mug. The dregs had congealed into sludge.
It wasn’t about the dishes—ten minutes of work, really. It was that James *didn’t even see* her labour. To him, dirty plates vanished magically. Clean ones appeared. Like laundry folded itself. Like groceries turned into meals without effort. Like dust erased itself.
In his world, domestic life was a given—like electricity or running water. Flip a switch, there’s light. Turn a tap, water flows. Come home, and everything’s ready.
“I need help,” she’d said a week later, when he left a soup pot crusted with leftover stew. “Not money, not gifts. Just… *notice* what I do. Help.”
He’d glanced up from his laptop, genuine confusion in his eyes.
“What—this? Two seconds!”
Two seconds. Beth had looked at him then—at his baffled, irritated, *honest* face—and realised: he truly didn’t get it. In his mind, washing a plate was a thirty-second rinse. A swipe with a sponge. Done.
He didn’t factor in clearing the sink, waiting for hot water, scrubbing dried-on grease, rinsing, drying. Not one plate—twenty. Five mugs. Three pans. Cutlery. The hob. The bin.
That night, listening to his soft snores, she’d wondered: *What if I just… stop?*
Not out of spite. Just to let him see what *two seconds* really meant.
The next morning, she made coffee, ate toast, and walked out—leaving his dirty mug on the table.
By evening, the sink held two mugs. He didn’t notice; he grabbed a clean one from the cupboard, as usual.
“Alright, love?” he asked, kissing her cheek.
“Fine,” she said, watching him take a yoghurt from the fridge—and a clean spoon.
On the third day, the pile grew taller. On the fourth, he reused the same cup. By the fifth, he was digging out an old pint glass from the back of the cabinet. Then—gingerly—a wedding-present plate from the good china set.
He never complained. Just moved carefully, eyeing the overflowing sink.
By the seventh day, the kitchen was a disaster museum. The sink spilled onto counters. A faint sour smell hung in the air. A stray bluebottle buzzed near the window.
Beth felt oddly free. For the first time in three years, she wasn’t the invisible housekeeping service.
James tiptoed around like a man in a minefield, unearthing a plastic kiddie plate with cartoon elephants. He ate salad off it, pretending this was normal.
Then—finally—he snapped.
“BETH!” he bellowed, storming in with grocery bags. “What the hell’s happened here?”
His face was flushed. Nostrils flared.
“Are you ill? This place is—Christ, it’s a *tip*! It stinks!”
She stirred pasta on the hob, calm.
“I’m just living,” she said.
“*Living*?!” He jabbed a finger at the sink—now a leaning tower of filth. “This is *disgusting*! How can you stand it?”
“I stopped,” she said simply. “You said it’s two seconds. So do it.”
He gaped.
“But I—this—” He gestured wildly. “I can’t even find a *clean fork*!”
She met his eyes. “Exactly.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. The anger faded into something like realisation.
“…It’s always been like this?”
“*No*,” she said. “Because I cleaned it—every day. Every morning. Every night. Your *two seconds*. And you never saw.”
He stared. Really *looked*—at the mess, the work behind it.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered. “I—I honestly didn’t *get* it. I thought—just rinsing a plate—”
“One plate, yes,” she agreed. “Fifty?”
He swallowed.
“Right,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeves. “Let’s fix this.”
They cleaned in silence, elbows bumping. James scoured a pan like it owed him money.
“Christ,” he grumbled, peeling off fossilised egg. “This is *disgusting*. What’s this green bit?”
“Your forgotten takeaway,” she said.
He gagged.
Three hours later, the kitchen smelled of bleach. Their hands were raw.
“New rule,” James said, drying the last spoon. “Whoever dirties it, washes it. Straight away.”
Beth nodded.
“And—remind me,” he added. “If I forget. Just… no more *siege tactics*, yeah? I’ll have a heart attack.”
She smirked.
“Deal.”
