Hey folks, grab some popcorn (or maybe your favorite stress ball), because today’s tale is straight out of a domestic drama series. Picture this: a cozy little domestic setup with yours truly (a 28-year-old dude) and my wonderful, if not somewhat exasperating, wife (30 years young). We’ve been married for two years and together for five. We were on the verge of starting a family, but that plan has taken a backseat—maybe even permanently. Here’s the kicker: we both work the same hours and earn roughly the same. So fairness, right?

Once upon a time, we had a fair system for chores. We’d play rock-paper-scissors to schedule our days off. It kept things light-hearted. She took more dish duty, while I tackled Mount Laundry. Not exactly Everest, but you get the gist.

Here comes the twist (cue dramatic music)—my wife absolutely despises doing dishes. Her hatred for this task is the stuff of legends. We’re talking full-on emotional breakdowns at the sight of a dirty plate. Initially, when her tears started to flow, I played the gallant knight, riding to her rescue, taking over dish duty, switching chores for the day, calming her down. All was well in the kingdom.

But then, dear reader, I noticed something peculiar. The waterworks would mysteriously cease the moment I took over. She’d go off to enjoy her day, laughter and sunshine included. The emotional breakdown? A mere performance. Gasp! I realized I was being played!

So we decided to simplify things. “Whoever makes the dish, washes it,” except if you cook. Cooks are exempt from washing pots and pans—a rule proposed by none other than my inventive wife. And guess what? It actually worked. For a while.

Then came another plot twist. Despite her culinary contributions, my wife seemed to be generating an alarming number of dirty dishes and showed zero intent to clean them. I confronted her about it one evening, and instead of a rational conversation, you guessed it—we had a nuclear-level argument. The dishes remained untouched, and I ended up washing them with a side of resentment.

I also handle most of the laundry, not because it’s a passion of mine but because wearing clean clothes isn’t optional for me. My wife only has one laundry-related responsibility: put dirty clothes in the basket. We’ve got handy dandy baskets for darks, colors, and whites. My wife, ever the individualist, must have her own basket for underwear and special items, which I even hand wash.

Sound simple? Think again. She started dumping her worn clothes on the floor, nonchalantly saying, “You always pick it up.” I decided to conduct an experiment. I left her clothes where they fell. Unsurprisingly, they transformed into an immovable heap. When she eventually noticed, she exploded. Déjà vu?

The drama reached its zenith when, amidst all the fights, my wife’s response was to get creative—or incredibly lazy, depending on your perspective. She began buying new dishes and clothes instead of cleaning the existing ones. Yes, you read that right. Plastic spoons, paper plates, Walmart t-shirts, you name it. When I started tossing her new acquisitions in a fit of frustration, things escalated. She was furious, and in a moment of sheer exhaustion, I raised my voice. And then, I saw fear in her eyes.

I immediately regretted it. I’m a big guy with a deep voice, and it scared her. I lowered my tone and tried to explain. But the damage was done. She told me she didn’t feel safe and suggested we might be better off divorced. It was like a punch to the gut.

The yelling was accidental. Now, no one wants to hear my side of the story. My friends are either playing Switzerland or taking her side. I’m losing my mind and friends. Do I look like the bad guy here?

All I wanted was for her to pick up after herself. I never intended to scare her; I was just frustrated after months of bottling it up. Admittedly, throwing away her disposable purchases was immature. Should I have just done the chores myself? Maybe. But folks, even a knight has his limits.

So, here I am, feeling like a jerk. Was I wrong? Maybe. But hey, we live, we learn, and we hopefully don’t drown in dirty dishes along the way.

And that’s the scoop. Tune in next time for more episodes from the chaotic script of my life!