A droplet of water fell from the tap, landing perfectly in the centre of the dried-up scrambled eggs—tick, tick, tick.
Emily froze by the sink, gripping the sponge. The frying pan from last night glared at her accusingly, framed by yellow grease stains and breadcrumbs. Beside it, a plate smeared with butter, a mug ringed with coffee, a knife sticky with jam. Anthony had already left for work in his battered Ford Fiesta, leaving behind the usual morning mess. It all waited patiently for her hands, as it had every morning for the past three years.
*Again*, Emily thought, turning the tap absently. Hot water hissed, foaming at the bottom of the pan. She soaked the sponge, squeezed out a drop of washing-up liquid, and got to work.
Three months ago, she’d asked Anthony for the first time to help with the dishes. He’d raised his eyebrows as if she’d suggested he paint the Sistine Chapel or learn Mandarin.
“Em, it’s nothing,” he’d said, eyes glued to the football match on TV. “Five minutes, tops.”
Five minutes. Every morning. Every evening. Emily scrubbed, silently calculating: over a year, those “five minutes” added up to thirty hours. A full workweek spent at the sink.
The pan resisted. Dried grease clung stubbornly, needing elbow grease and patience. The yolk had welded itself to the Teflon, leaving yellow streaks. As she scraped, she recalled last night—Anthony sprawled on the sofa, scrolling through his phone while she alone dealt with the aftermath of dinner.
“Tony,” she’d ventured carefully, “maybe you could wash your plate?”
His thumb kept swiping—faces, cats, memes. “Later,” he muttered. “You know what kind of day I’ve had.”
A *day*. He always had *a day*. Projects burning, clients calling, bosses demanding reports. And her? Some kind of holiday? She worked too—eight hours a day in a small accounting firm, nothing glamorous, but still *work*.
She placed the clean pan on the rack and picked up the coffee mug. The dregs had congealed into a brown sludge. Scrubbing, she wondered why this little thing gnawed at her. It wasn’t the dishes—ten minutes’ work. It was that Anthony *didn’t see* the labour.
To him, dirty plates vanished by magic, clean ones appeared in the cupboard. Laundry transformed from machine to ironed shirts. Food arranged itself into meals. Dust evaporated. The house functioned like electricity—flip a switch, light appears. Come home, everything’s tidy.
“I need help,” she said a week later, when he left not just a plate, but a whole pot of baked beans in the sink—three litres of enamelware crusted with dried sauce.
He looked up from his laptop, baffled. “What’s the big deal? It’s a minute’s work! I’ve got deadlines, clients breathing down my neck, and you’re on about a *pot*—?”
*A minute’s work.* Emily studied his face—honest irritation, no deceit. He truly believed that. Probably thought: rinse (thirty seconds), scrub (thirty seconds). Done.
He never considered clearing the sink, waiting for hot water, fetching a clean sponge, squeezing detergent, scrubbing dried gunk, rinsing, drying. And 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, but to show him.
Next morning, she made coffee in the cafetière, toast, ate—and left for work without touching the sink. Anthony’s mug sat beside his crumb-strewn plate.
All day, she wondered: *What will he do?*
By evening, two mugs sat in the sink. Plus dinner plates, cutlery. Anthony didn’t react—just fetched clean ones from the cupboard.
“How was your day?” he asked, pecking her cheek.
“Fine,” she said, watching him grab a yoghurt and a clean spoon.
Day two: more dishes.
Day three: a teetering tower.
He rummaged for spares. They had more crockery than she’d realised.
Day four: he started conserving. One mug for tea *and* coffee. Rinsing plates to reuse.
Day five: he dug out an old pint glass from his student days. Then—carefully—a plate from the wedding china, the fancy Wedgwood set reserved for holidays.
Still, no complaint. Just cautious movements, the occasional glance at the overflowing sink.
Day six: the pans joined the pile. He fried eggs in the tiny crepe pan—the only one not buried under congealed fat. She boiled pasta in the last clean saucepan.
Day seven: the kitchen became a museum of neglect. The sink vomited dishes onto counters, windowsills, even a stool. A sweet, sour smell of rot lingered. Flies buzzed by the window.
Anthony navigated like a bomb squad. Scavenged a plastic kiddie plate—pink, with cartoon bunnies. Ate salad off it, pretending all was normal.
For the first time in three years, Emily didn’t feel like staff. Let the kitchen reek like a horror set—at least Anthony couldn’t pretend mess disappeared on its own.
“Em!” he bellowed that evening, bursting in with a grocery bag. “What the hell’s happened here?”
His nostrils flared at the stench. “Are you ill? It’s—it’s a pigsty!”
She stirred lentils calmly. “Just living.”
“You call this *living*?” He jabbed at the Leaning Tower of Crockery. “It stinks like a landfill!”
“And?”
“Did you *do* this on purpose?” Genuine bewilderment.
“I just stopped,” she said. “You said it’s a minute’s work. So do it in a minute.”
“How?” he exploded. “There isn’t a single clean mug! And the *smell*—”
She met his eyes—furious, then lost, then dawning.
“Exactly,” she said.
His jaw worked. “But—this was always… like this?”
“Worse,” she said. “Because I cleaned it. Every day. Your ‘five minutes’. You never noticed.”
He looked around, *really* saw the mess—the labour it took to undo it.
“Christ,” he exhaled. “I *genuinely* didn’t get it. One plate *is* a minute. But twenty plates, ten mugs, five pans…?”
“Plus the hob, the bin—how many minutes, Tony?”
He swallowed. “I’m an idiot. Sorry.”
Rolling up his sleeves, he attacked the sink. “Right. Let’s fix this.”
They scrubbed in silence, elbows bumping. He attacked a pot like it owed him money.
“Bloody hell,” he grunted, chiselling off fossilised egg. “How does it stick *like this*?”
“Your beans from Tuesday.”
“Ugh, vile.” He gagged.
Three hours later, the kitchen gleamed. Their backs ached, their hands were red.
“New rule,” he panted, drying the last mug. “Whoever uses it, washes it. No piling up.”
“Deal.”
“And—remind me if I forget. Just no more… *demonstrations*. I’ll have a coronary.”
Emily smirked. “Done.”
