**June 12th**
A drop of water fell from the tap, right onto the dried-up scrambled eggs in the pan—tick, tick, tick. Emily froze by the sink, gripping the sponge in her hand. Last night’s frying pan stared back at her accusingly, ringed with grease stains and stray crumbs. Beside it, a plate smeared with butter, a mug with coffee residue, a knife sticky with jam. Daniel had already left for work in his battered Ford Fiesta, leaving behind the usual breakfast aftermath—another still life waiting for her hands, as it had every morning for the past three years.
*Again*, Emily thought, turning the tap mechanically. Hot water hissed as suds bubbled in the pan. She dampened the sponge, squeezed out a drop of washing-up liquid, and got to work.
Three months ago, she’d first asked Daniel to help with the dishes. He’d looked at her as if she’d suggested he repaint the Sistine Chapel ceiling or learn Mandarin overnight.
“Em, it’s not a big deal,” he’d said, eyes fixed on the football match playing on the telly. “Five minutes, tops.”
Five minutes. Every morning. Every evening. As she scrubbed, Emily did the maths in her head—those “five minutes” added up to thirty hours a year. An entire workweek wasted at the sink.
The pan resisted. Dried yolk clung stubbornly to the non-stick coating. She scraped harder, remembering last night—Daniel sprawled on the sofa scrolling through his phone while she cleared their dinner mess alone.
“Danny,” she’d said carefully, avoiding any hint of accusation, “maybe you could wash your own plate?”
He hadn’t looked up. His thumb swiped mindlessly—memes, cats, reels.
“Later,” he muttered. “Had a proper day at the office.”
A *proper day*. He always did. Deadlines, clients, reports. As if her job—a modest accounting role, paid less than his—meant she lounged on holiday.
Clean pan set in the drying rack, she moved to the mug. Coffee grounds had congealed into a sludge. Scrubbing the porcelain, she wondered why this small thing stung so much. It wasn’t the chore itself—ten minutes of effort—but the fact Daniel never noticed it.
To him, dirty dishes vanished on their own. Clean plates materialised like magic. Clothes leaped from the washing machine to the ironing board. Groceries transformed into dinner. Dust evaporated; floors cleaned themselves. In his world, housework happened effortlessly—like flipping a switch for light or turning a tap for water. Come home, and everything was just *there*.
“I need help,” she’d said the other week, when he left not just a plate but an entire saucepan of dried-on beef stew in the sink. “Not money, not gifts. Just… notice what I do. Chip in.”
Daniel had looked up from his laptop, genuinely baffled. “What’s the fuss? It’s two seconds! My project’s burning, clients calling nonstop, and you’re on about a *pan*—”
*Two seconds*. She’d studied his face—open, irritated, utterly sincere—and realised he truly couldn’t see the problem.
In his head: rinse a plate (30 seconds), scrub (30 more). Done. He never accounted for clearing leftovers, waiting for hot water, scrubbing baked-on grease. Multiply that by plates, mugs, cutlery, pots…
That night, listening to his steady snores, an idea struck.
*What if I just… stop?*
Not out of spite. Just… cease doing what he called *two seconds* of work. Let him see the reality.
Next morning, she made coffee, ate toast, left her dishes—and went to work. Daniel’s mug sat untouched, crumbs and butter smeared on his plate.
By evening, two mugs sat in the sink. Then four. Plates piled like stalagmites. Daniel rummaged for spares—hidden mugs, an old pint glass from his uni days. On day four, he reused a single plate. By day five, he dug out his nan’s vintage tea set—reserved for Christmas.
Still, no complaints. Only cautious movements, occasional glances at the overflowing sink.
By day seven, the kitchen was a warzone. The stench of sour milk hung in the air. A lone fly buzzed by the window. Daniel tiptoed around like a bomb disposal expert, finally resorting to a plastic kids’ plate—pink, with cartoon bunnies.
Emily felt a strange relief. For the first time in three years, she wasn’t the invisible housekeeper.
That evening, Daniel stormed in, grocery bag in hand.
“Em! What the hell’s going on?” He gaped at the disaster. “It’s a pigsty! Smells like a bin!”
She shrugged. “Just living my life.”
“You—you did this on purpose?” Genuine confusion laced his voice.
“Stopped, that’s all. You said it’s two seconds. Prove it.”
He floundered. “I can’t even find a clean mug! The smell—”
“Exactly,” she said calmly.
His anger faltered. Eyes darted between her and the sink. Something clicked.
“Christ… it was always like this?”
“Worse,” she said. “Because I cleaned it. Every day. Your *two seconds*.”
Daniel’s shoulders slumped. “Bloody hell. I never… I honestly thought—”
“One plate? Fine. Twenty plates, ten mugs, five pans? Plus wiping surfaces, taking out the rubbish… How many *seconds* is that?”
Silence.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m a complete berk. Didn’t get it.”
He rolled up his sleeves and attacked the sink with ferocity, as if the frying pan had personally offended him. Three hours later, the kitchen finally smelled of bleach.
“New rule,” Daniel said, drying the last mug. “Whoever dirties it, washes it. No stacking. And—” He glanced at her. “If I slack, give me a nudge. Just no more… whatever this was. Nearly gave me a coronary.”
Emily smirked. “Deal.”
