I stopped ironing Simons shirts the day he called my whole day at home just sitting around.
Come on, Harriet, what could you possibly be tired of? Watching telly? Gabbing on the phone with the girls? I get home from the office feeling knackered, and you tell me your back hurts because youve been carrying the whole family while some people just lounge at home!
Simon flung his fork onto the table so hard it clanged and bounced onto the floor. The mince patty Harriet had spent an hour frying, trying to get the perfect crust he loves, sat untouched on the plate.
Harriet froze by the kitchen sink. The tap kept running, washing the suds off the dishes, but she only heard one phrase in her head: Just sitting around.
Simon, she said, turning off the tap slowly, hands trembling, slipping them into the pockets of her apron. Are you serious? You really think I spend all day watching dramas?
Then what are you doing? Simon leaned back in his chair, that smug, condescending look thats been showing up more often lately. We dont have any little kids, Arthur is at university in a dorm. Our flat isnt a palace, just a modest terraced house. Whats there to clean? The robot vacuum does the floors, the washing machine does the laundry, the slow cooker does the stew. Its a holiday for you, not a life. And Im the one bringing home the money to pay for your little holiday. Dont I have the right to come home and find a relaxed, rested wife instead of hearing complaints about being worn out?
Harriet stared at the man shed lived with for twentyfive years, at his impeccably pressed lightblue shirt with thin stripes. She remembered the forty minutes shed spent at the ironing board last night smoothing every crease, every cuff, so he looked sharp. She recalled the earlymorning dash to the market for fresh curd because Simon only likes cottagecheese pancakes made from homegrown curd. She thought of scrubbing the bathtub, sorting the winter coats, lugging the grocery bags
But he didnt see any of that. To him, clean floors were a given, a hot dinner was a function of the slow cooker, and freshly ironed shirts apparently grew on trees in the wardrobe.
Fine, Harriet whispered. I hear you. Im on holiday, just sitting at home.
Brilliant, weve finally got each other, Simon grumbled, picking the fork up off the floor and tossing it into the sink. Give me a clean one. And make a strong tea last time it tasted like pond water.
She handed him the fork in silence, poured the tea without a word. Inside her something snapped. There was no shouting, no broken dishes just a sudden chill and an empty feeling, like the windows had been smashed in the middle of winter.
That evening, when Simon, stuffed and smug, plopped in front of the telly to watch the footie, Harriet slipped into the bedroom. Usually thats her second shift. Simon works as a department manager at a big firm, where the dress code is strict and shirts change daily.
She set up the ironing board, placed the iron, then looked at the basket overflowing with his shirts, still damp, stiff from the spin cycle, all crumpled.
Robot does the washing, washing machine does the washing, hed said. It does the washing, but it cant iron.
Sure, the machine washes, but it cant iron. Isnt that a trivial thing? Something for those who just sit at home and have nothing better to do.
Harriet yanked the irons cord from the socket, folded the board and tucked it away. She shoved the heap of crumpled shirts into the corner of the wardrobe.
Enjoy your holiday, Harriet, she said to her reflection in the mirror. Youve earned it.
Morning came as usual. Simons alarm went off, he stretched, shuffled to the shower. Harriet was already in the kitchen with a mug of coffee. She hadnt made breakfast just a box of granola and a carton of milk sat on the table.
Wheres the omelette? Simon asked, wiping his hair with a towel as he trudged in.
Didnt get around to it, Harriet replied, scrolling through the news on her phone. Im on holiday, thought Id linger a bit longer before my daily drama binge.
Simon snorted, assuming she was just being cheeky after the argument.
Alright, moving on. Granolas granola. Listen, I opened the wardrobe earlier and cant find the white shirt with the cufflinks Ive got a meeting with the director today, need to look sharp. Wheres it?
Here, in the basket, Harriet said without looking up.
In the basket? Dirty?
Clean. Freshly laundered. The machine does the washing.
Simon choked on his milk.
Harriet, seriously? Ive got twenty minutes before Im out. Wheres the ironed shirt?
Its with the rest of them unironed.
His face started to turn a shade of pink.
Enough with the circus. I may have overreacted yesterday, but this isnt a reason to sabotage me. Just iron the shirt. Quickly.
Harriet lifted her eyes to him. No fear, no resentment, just a flat indifference.
No, Simon. Im not ironing. Ironing is work, and Im not working. Im at home, and being at home doesnt mean I have to stand at a scorching iron for hours. Let the machine do it, or you do it yourself. Youre a man; youre used to carrying the load. An iron isnt any heavier than the responsibility youve got.
Youre kidding me! Simon shouted. I have a meeting! Im late!
The irons in the cupboard, the boards there too. Youll make it if you hurry.
Simon stormed out, swearing under his breath. Harriet heard the clatter of the board, the clang of the iron, the hiss of steam. Ten minutes later he reemerged, hair a mess, shirt halfpressed, collar all crooked.
Thanks, love! You saved me! he bellowed, slamming the door so hard the teacups rattled. Harriet calmly finished her coffee and got ready. She had plans a swim at the local pool shed been meaning to try, a catchup with a friend. A holiday, after all.
That night Simon came home looking gloomier than a thundercloud. His shirt was even more rumpled, as if hed slept on a bench at the station.
So, happy? he asked, tossing his briefcase aside. The director gave me the stink eye all meeting. Asked if my wife was ill, seeing me look like this.
What did you say? Harriet asked, curious.
I said shed decided to play feminist.
Anything to eat? she replied.
Frozen dumplings, the cheap kind, called Bites.
Simon cracked a tooth, but didnt argue. He cooked the dumplings straight from the pot, ate them, and slunk back to the bedroom, closing the door with a theatrical bang.
A week passed and the flat slowly slipped into chaos. Not that Harriet stopped cleaning or washing dishes, but the magic of a tidy home faded. Fresh towels that used to magically appear in the bathroom disappeared. The smell of homebaked cakes vanished. Most of all, the ironed clothes went missing.
Simon suffered. At first he tried to wear the few shirts left in the back of the wardrobe, but they ran out fast. He attempted to iron himself, but the results were disastrous doublestitched trousers, shirts turning yellow because he hadnt set the right temperature. He once burned a hole in his favourite jumper and screamed at Harriet for sabotage.
Meanwhile Harriet blossomed. She finally realised how much free time she actually had. She started reading, strolling in the park, gave herself a new haircut. She stopped slouching, as if a heavy sack had been lifted from her shoulders.
Friday evening Simon showed up with a colleague, Ian Peters, his work buddy. Simon had warned Harriet a week earlier about the visit, but shed forgot.
Harriet! Simon called from the hallway, unnaturally bright. Guests! Ians here for a celebration!
Harriet stepped into the hallway, looking sharp in a cosy housedress and a touch of makeup.
Good evening, Ian, she smiled.
What a wife you have, Simon! Shes radiant! Ian laughed. You were complaining she was ill.
Simon flushed, shoving Ian toward the kitchen.
Come on, come on Harriet, could you put something on the table? Some snacks, maybe a quick hot thing?
Simon, youve forgotten we have nothing prepared. I didnt cook today. We could order a pizza or sushi, deliverys quick now.
What? No food? We have guests!
You didnt remind me. I was at the cinema.
Ian sensed the tension and tried to smooth things over.
Dont stress, Simon. Pizzas fine. Im a fan of pepperoni.
Simon, gritting his teeth, fumbled for his phone to order. He spent the whole evening on edge, watching Ian glance at his crumpled Tshirt (Simon had stopped ironing his own clothes, thinking it was fine, but next to Harriets immaculate appearance it looked pathetic). He also noted the empty table that never quite lived up to his bragging rights.
When Ian finally left, Simon exploded.
Youve embarrassed me! On purpose? In front of a colleague! Hell think I live in a pigsty and eat pizza from a box!
Whats wrong with pizza? Harriet asked. Its tasty, and we dont have to wash dishes. You said household chores shouldnt be a problem.
Start ironing! he roared. I look like a scarecrow! At work they point at me!
You should tell them the truth, Simon. Say, My wife stays at home, and I stopped her from getting exhausted, so I iron my own shirts. Theyll understand. Theyre modern, after all.
I cant iron! Im a man, Im not built for that!
Then hire a cleaner.
Who?
A housekeeper. Someone who will wash, tidy and, crucially, iron your shirts. Since my work seems worthless and just sitting at home, lets pay a professional. I looked up prices ironing a shirt costs about £3. You use about seven shirts a week, plus trousers and tees. Thats around £100 a month just for ironing. Cleaning is another £200, cooking another £150. Roughly £450 a month.
Youve lost your mind! £450? Thats a third of my salary!
I used to do it for free, and all I got was accusations of laziness. Maths is stubborn, Simon. If you dont value free labour, pay the market rate.
Simon flopped onto the sofa, staring at Harriet, and for the first time in years some rusty gears of realisation started turning.
This is family, he muttered, the old bragging tone gone. In a family you dont charge for the stew.
In a family you respect each others work. When one pretends to be a master and the other a lazy servant, that isnt a family its exploitation. Im tired of being invisible, only noticed when I stop being invisible.
Harriet retreated to the spare bedroom, needing her own space.
The weekend passed in a heavy silence. Simon wandered the flat, bewildered. On Saturday he tried to iron his trousers and burned them completely. Sunday he attempted to scrub the stove after spilling coffee and broke a nail. He suddenly realised dust doesnt wait a year to settle it piles up in two days. The toilet wont clean itself. The rubbish bin starts stinking if you dont take it out.
Monday morning Harriet woke to a faint smell of something burnt but oddly appetising. She walked into the kitchen to find Simon, apron tied around his bare torso, flipping pancakes.
Morning, he grumbled without turning. Thought Id make breakfast.
Harriet sat down.
Whats the occasion?
Simon switched off the hob, placed two lopsided, halfblack pancakes on a plate and slid it over to her.
Harriet, I I was wrong.
He sank his head onto the table.
Im an idiot. I thought everything would just sort itself out. You never complained, always smiled, kept the house spotless, cooked well. I got complacent. When you stopped I was shocked. Honestly.
He met her eyes guilty, helpless, sleepless circles under them, a scruffy beard.
I spent an hour ironing one shirt yesterday. My back went stiff. Youve ironed five shirts a day. I cant fathom how you did it. Im sorry. Ill never call you a homebound again. You work, you grind, and I didnt see it.
Harriet felt the ice inside her melt. She didnt need a housekeeper or a fancy price tag. She just wanted a simple human thank you and a bit of understanding.
Eat the pancakes, he urged, pushing the plate forward. Theyre not like yours, but I tried.
She took a bite. The pancake was rubbery, a hint of burnt butter, but somehow the best shed tasted in ages.
Thanks, Simon, she said, smiling genuinely. Its delicious.
Harriet, he pleaded, can I ask a favour? Ive got an important meeting today. Could you iron just one shirt? Ill get us a big dishwasher so you dont have to handwash anything that wont fit. And Ill arrange a monthly deepcleaning service for the windows.
Harriets smile widened the first truly sincere one in weeks.
Okay. Bring the shirt. One shirt only.
One shirt, only one! Simon cheered, leaping up. Youre the best! I love you, Harriet, truly.
He darted off, and Harriet finished the slightly charred pancake, thinking how a tiny rebellion of unironed shirts had to happen to reset the balance in the little kingdom they called family.
Six months later Simon kept his promise he bought the dishwasher and actually pays for the cleaning service. Every time he slips on a fresh shirt, he leans over, kisses Harriets cheek and says, Thanks, love. Youre my magic.
And thats why a twoweek strike of unironed shirts was worth it. Love isnt about being served; its about seeing, valuing and protecting each others labour.
If you liked this tale and agree that domestic work should be respected, give it a like and subscribe. How do you split chores at home? Drop a comment.
