Work, Parent, Cook, Save: My Husband’s Lack of Involvement

“Can you please just put the laundry in the dryer, Mark?”

That’s my voice echoing off the kitchen walls, shaky with exhaustion and a little too loud for a Tuesday night. Mark doesn’t look up from his phone. He’s scrolling through ESPN, nodding vaguely. “Yeah, in a minute, babe.”

A minute passes. Then ten. I stare at the clock, feeling the familiar heat of frustration creep up my neck. I don’t want to fight, not again, but I’m so tired—tired enough to cry, but too tired even for that.

I work full-time at the local insurance agency, answering calls from frustrated clients and typing policies until my fingers ache. My boss, Sharon, says I have potential, but I can’t stay late for extra training—someone has to get Lily from daycare before they close. The clock’s always ticking in my head: get up at six, make breakfast, pack lunches, drop Lily off, work, groceries, dinner, laundry, bath time, bedtime stories, and then maybe, if I’m lucky, a few minutes to myself before I collapse next to Mark, who’s usually asleep before I even turn off the light.

Sometimes I envy my friends. Amanda posts photos from Rome, smiling with a glass of wine in hand, her kids waving at the Colosseum. Lisa started her own Etsy shop, and her crafts are always popping up on my Instagram feed. Even my sister, who lives two states away, seems to have it together—she’s baking cookies with her kids, laughing with her husband, planning camping trips.

Meanwhile, I’m scraping pasta off Lily’s bib and wondering when I started to disappear.

Tonight, Lily’s crying in her room because she wants her purple pajamas. Mark shouts from the living room, “Maggie, where are her pajamas?”

I grit my teeth. “Same place they always are, Mark. Third drawer.”

He comes into the kitchen, phone in hand. “You know, you could ask nicely.”

I whirl around. “Ask nicely? I ask for help every single day. You say you’ll do it, but you don’t. I can’t do this alone, Mark. I need you.”

He shrugs, and there’s a flash of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or annoyance. “I work, too, Maggie. I’m tired. Why does it always have to be a fight?”

I want to scream, but instead I whisper, “Because I’m drowning and you don’t even see me.”

He goes back to the living room. The TV flickers. I finish loading the dishwasher and wipe down the counters. My hands shake. I think about the bills stacked on the table, the savings account we’re barely adding to, the birthday party I’m supposed to plan, the dentist appointment I keep rescheduling for Lily, the groceries we need, the lunch meeting I have to prep for tomorrow.

After Lily’s asleep, I sit on the edge of my bed and open my laptop. My calendar is a mess—every square filled, color-coded chaos. I scroll through the days, looking for a gap, somewhere I can just breathe. There isn’t one. My phone buzzes. Amanda texts: “When are we getting together? Miss you!”

I type, “I’m swamped, maybe next week?” but I know I’ll say the same thing again.

Mark comes in, rubs his eyes. “You coming to bed?”

I nod, but I don’t move. I want to ask him why he never offers, why he doesn’t notice the mountain of chores, why he thinks making money is the only contribution that counts. But I’m so tired. And I know he’ll just say, “I told you, just ask.”

But asking feels like begging. It feels like I’m the manager of our lives and he’s just an employee doing the bare minimum. I want a partner, not another child.

One night, after another argument about whose turn it is to take out the trash, I call my sister. “Did you ever feel like you’re the only one holding everything together?”

She sighs. “All the time. But Tom and I went to counseling. It helped.”

I think about suggesting it to Mark, but I already know what he’ll say. “We’re fine. It’s just stress. It’ll get better.”

But what if it doesn’t?

The next morning, I oversleep. Lily’s late for daycare. My boss frowns when I walk in. I forget to send a payment for the electric bill. Mark texts, “Do we have milk?” I want to throw my phone across the room.

That night, after Lily’s asleep, I finally let myself cry. Silent, shaking sobs into my pillow. I feel so alone. I wonder if other women feel this way, or if I’m just not strong enough. If I’m failing at being a mom, a wife, an employee, a person.

I wipe my eyes. I look at the ceiling, searching for answers. I think about the women who came before me—my mother, who did it all with a smile, or maybe she just hid her tears better. The world tells me I should be grateful. I have a job, a home, a family. But why does gratitude feel so much like defeat?

The next morning, I make pancakes. Mark comes in, pours himself coffee, and mumbles, “Thanks, babe.” Lily hugs my leg. For a moment, I feel a flicker of warmth. But it fades as Mark leaves his plate on the table and walks out.

I stare at the dirty dish, the syrup sticky on the fork, and I wonder: Is this all there is? Is this what partnership looks like? Or am I just invisible, holding up the sky while everyone else lives under it?

Does it have to be this way? Or is there something I’m missing, some secret everyone else knows? Maybe I’m not alone. Maybe we’re all just waiting for someone to finally see us.