After a week away, I came home to the strange and unsettling sight of my kids sleeping on the cold hallway floor. Heart pounding, I searched for answers, only to find my husband missing and odd noises coming from the kids’ room. What I uncovered next left me furious — and ready for a fight!
I’d been away on a business trip for a week, and let me tell you, I was itching to get home. My boys, Tommy and Alex, were probably bouncing off the walls waiting for me.
I mean, a week is practically forever when you’re 6 and 8. And Mark? Well, I figured he’d be glad to hand the reins back to me. He’s a great dad, don’t get me wrong, but he’s always been more of the fun parent than the responsible one.
As I pulled into our driveway at midnight, I couldn’t help but grin. The house was dark and quiet, just as it should be at this ungodly hour.
I grabbed my suitcase and tiptoed to the front door, keys jingling softly in my hand.
The lock clicked open, and I stepped inside, ready to collapse into bed. But something was… wrong.
My foot hit something soft, and I froze. Heart pounding, I fumbled for the light switch. When the hall lit up, I almost screamed.
Tommy and Alex were sprawled out on the floor, tangled up in blankets like a couple of puppies. They were fast asleep, but their faces were smudged with dirt, and their hair was sticking up in all directions.
“What the hell?” I whispered, my mind racing. Had there been a fire? A gas leak? Why weren’t they in their beds?
I crept past them, afraid to wake them up until I knew what was going on. The living room was a disaster zone, littered with pizza boxes, soda cans, and what looked suspiciously like melted ice cream on the coffee table. But no sign of Mark.
My heart was doing the cha-cha in my chest as I made my way to our bedroom. Empty.
The bed was still made, like it hadn’t been slept in today. Mark’s car was in the driveway, so where was he?
That’s when I heard it. A faint, muffled sound coming from the boys’ room. I tiptoed over, my imagination running wild. Was Mark hurt? Had some psycho broken in and tied him up?
I pushed the door open, inch by inch, and…
“What. The. Actual—” I bit my tongue, remembering the kids were just down the hall.
There was Mark, headphones on, controller in hand, surrounded by empty energy drink cans and snack wrappers. But that wasn’t even the craziest part.
The boys’ room had been transformed into some kind of gamer paradise. A massive TV took up one wall, there were LED lights everywhere, and I’m pretty sure that monstrosity in the corner was a mini-fridge.
I stood there, mouth hanging open, as the rage built up inside me like a volcano about to blow. Mark hadn’t even noticed me yet, too engrossed in whatever game he was playing.
I stomped over and yanked the headphones off his head. “Mark! What the hell is going on?”
He blinked at me, looking dazed. “Oh, hey babe. You’re home early.”
“Early? It’s midnight! Why are our children sleeping on the floor?”
He shrugged, reaching for his controller again. “Oh, it’s fine. The boys were happy sleeping outside. They thought it was an adventure.”
I snatched the controller away. “An adventure? They’re not camping, Mark! They’re sleeping on our dirty hallway floor!”
“Come on, don’t be such a buzzkill,” he said, trying to grab the controller back. “Everything’s under control. I’ve been feeding them and stuff.”
“Feeding them? You mean the pizza boxes and ice cream in the living room?” I could feel my blood pressure rising with every word. “And what about baths? Or, I don’t know, their actual beds?”
Mark rolled his eyes. “They’re fine, Sarah. Lighten up a bit.”
That’s when I lost it.
“Lighten up? LIGHTEN UP? Our children are sleeping on the floor like animals while you play video games in their room! What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he huffed. “I’m just trying to have a little me-time. Is that so terrible?”
I took a deep breath, trying not to scream. “You know what? We’re not doing this right now. Go put the boys in their beds. Now.”
“But I’m in the middle of—”
“NOW, Mark!”
He grumbled but got up, shuffling past me.
I watched him pick up Tommy, who stirred a little but didn’t wake up. As Mark carried him to bed, I couldn’t help but think how alike they looked: one actual child and the man acting like one.
I scooped up Alex, my heart breaking a little at how dirty his face was. As I tucked him into bed, I made a decision. If Mark wanted to act like a child, then that’s exactly how I’d treat him.
The next morning, I put my plan into action.
While Mark was in the shower, I snuck into the man cave he’d created and unplugged everything. Then I got to work.
When he came downstairs, hair still wet, I was waiting for him with a big smile. “Good morning, sweetie! I made you breakfast!”
He looked at me suspiciously. “Uh, thanks?”
I set a plate in front of him. In the middle was a Mickey Mouse-shaped pancake with a smiley face made of fruit. His coffee was in a sippy cup.
“What’s this?” he asked, poking at the pancake.
“It’s your breakfast, silly! Now eat up, we have a big day ahead of us!”
After breakfast, I unveiled my masterpiece, a giant, colorful chore chart plastered on the fridge. “Look what I made for you!”
Mark’s eyes widened. “What the hell is that?”
“Language!” I scolded. “It’s your very own chore chart! See? You can earn gold stars for cleaning your room, doing the dishes, and putting away your toys!”
“My toys? Sarah, what are you—”
I cut him off. “Oh, and don’t forget! We have a new house rule. All screens off by 9 p.m. sharp. That includes your phone, mister!”
Mark’s face went from confused to angry. “Are you kidding me? I’m a grown man, I don’t need—”
“Ah, ah, ah!” I wagged my finger. “No arguing, or you’ll have to go to the timeout corner!”
For the next week, I stuck to my guns. Every night at 9, I’d shut off the Wi-Fi and unplug his gaming console.
I even tucked him into bed with a glass of milk and read him “Goodnight Moon” in my most soothing voice.
His meals were served on plastic plates with little dividers. I cut his sandwiches into dinosaur shapes and gave him animal crackers for snacks. When he complained, I’d say things like, “Use your words, honey. Big boys don’t whine.”
The chore chart was a particular point of contention. Every time he completed a task, I’d make a big show of giving him a gold star.
“Look at you, putting your laundry away all by yourself! Mommy’s so proud!”
He’d grit his teeth and mutter, “I’m not a child, Sarah.”
To which I’d reply, “Of course not, sweetie. Now, who wants to help make cookies?”
The breaking point came about a week into my little experiment. Mark had just been sent to the timeout corner for throwing a fit about his two-hour screen time limit. He sat there, fuming, while I calmly set the kitchen timer.
“This is ridiculous!” he exploded. “I’m a grown man, for God’s sake!”
I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you sure about that? Because grown men don’t make their children sleep on the floor so they can play video games all night.”
He deflated a little. “Okay, okay, I get it! I’m sorry!”
I studied him for a moment. He did look genuinely remorseful, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook when I had one last blow to deliver.
“Oh, I accept your apology,” I said sweetly. “But I’ve already called your mom…”
The color drained from his face. “You didn’t.”
Right on cue, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to reveal Mark’s mother, looking every bit the disappointed parent.
“Mark!” she bellowed, marching into the house. “Did you really make my sweeties sleep on the floor so you could play your little games?”
Mark looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. “Mom, it’s not… I mean, I didn’t…”
She turned to me, her face softening. “Sarah, dear, I’m so sorry you had to deal with this. I thought I raised him better than that.”
I patted her arm. “It’s not your fault, Linda. Some boys just take longer to grow up than others.”
Mark’s face was beet red. “Mom, please. I’m 35 years old!”
Linda ignored him, turning back to me. “Well, not to worry. I’ve cleared my schedule for the next week. I’ll whip this boy back into shape in no time!”
As Linda bustled off to the kitchen, muttering about the state of the dishes, I caught Mark’s eye. He looked utterly defeated.
“Sarah,” he said quietly. “I really am sorry. I was selfish and irresponsible. It won’t happen again.”
I softened a little. “I know, honey. But when I’m away, I need to know you’ve got things under control. The boys need a father, not another playmate.”
He nodded, looking ashamed. “You’re right. I’ll do better, I promise.”
I smiled and gave him a quick kiss. “I know you will. Now, why don’t you go help your mother with the dishes? If you do a good job, maybe we can have ice cream for dessert.”
As Mark trudged off to the kitchen, I couldn’t help but feel a little smug. Lesson learned, I hoped. And if not… well, I still had that timeout corner ready and waiting.
My Husband Tried to ‘Fix’ Me with a New Schedule—My Epic Response Left Him Speechless
I was shocked when my husband, Jake, handed me a schedule to help me “become a better wife.” But instead of losing my temper, I decided to play along. Little did Jake know, I was about to teach him a lesson that would make him rethink his new idea of marriage.
I’ve always been the calm and reasonable one in our relationship. Jake, on the other hand, can easily get caught up in new trends or ideas, whether it’s a hobby or a YouTube video that claims to change his life in just a few easy steps.
Jake and I were fine until he met Steve. Steve was the type of guy who thought being loud made him right. He’d talk over anyone who tried to correct him. He was also always single (no surprise there), but that didn’t stop him from giving relationship advice to all his married friends, including Jake. Jake, who should’ve known better, was impressed by Steve’s confidence.
I didn’t worry about it much at first, but then Jake started saying things like, “Steve says marriages work best when the wife handles the household,” or “Steve thinks women should always look good for their husbands, no matter how long they’ve been married.” I’d roll my eyes and make sarcastic comments, but it was bothering me. Jake was changing. He’d raise an eyebrow if I ordered takeout instead of cooking, and he’d sigh if I let the laundry pile up—forgetting that I also had a full-time job.
Then one night, it happened. Jake came home with The List.
He sat me down, unfolded a piece of paper, and slid it across the table. “I’ve been thinking,” he began, sounding condescending in a way I’d never heard before. “You’re a great wife, Lisa, but there’s room for improvement.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Oh really?”
He nodded, not realizing he was walking into dangerous territory. “Yeah, Steve helped me realize that our marriage could be even better if you, you know, stepped up a bit.”
I looked at the paper in front of me. It was a schedule, titled “Lisa’s Weekly Routine for Becoming a Better Wife.” Jake had actually written out a plan for me based on what Steve—a single guy with no relationship experience—thought I should do to “improve” as a wife.
I was supposed to wake up at 5 a.m. every day to make Jake a gourmet breakfast, then go to the gym to “stay in shape.” After that? Cleaning, laundry, ironing—all before heading to work. Every evening, I was to cook dinner from scratch and make snacks for Jake and his friends when they came over. It was sexist and insulting on so many levels, I didn’t know where to start. I just stared at Jake, wondering if he had lost his mind.
“This will be great for you, and us,” he continued, unaware.
“Steve says it’s important to have structure, and I think you could benefit from—”
“Benefit from what?” I interrupted, keeping my voice calm. Jake blinked, surprised, but quickly recovered.
“Well, from having some guidance and a schedule.”
I wanted to throw the paper in his face, but instead, I surprised myself—I smiled.
“You’re right, Jake,” I said sweetly. “I’m lucky you made me this schedule. I’ll start tomorrow.”
He looked relieved, and I almost felt sorry for him as I stuck the list on the fridge. Almost. He had no idea what was coming.
The next day, I looked at the ridiculous schedule and smiled. If Jake thought he could hand me a list of “improvements,” he was about to learn a lesson. I opened my laptop and started a new document titled, “Jake’s Plan for Becoming the Best Husband Ever.” If he wanted perfection from me, there was a cost.
I started by listing all the things he’d suggested for me, beginning with the gym. “$1,200 for a personal trainer,” I typed, barely holding back a laugh.
Next was the food. If Jake wanted gourmet meals, that wasn’t happening with our current grocery budget. Organic, non-GMO, free-range everything? That wasn’t cheap. “$700 per month for groceries,” I wrote. And if he wanted fancy meals, he’d need cooking lessons too—those were expensive.
I leaned back, laughing as I imagined his face when he saw this. But I wasn’t done. The best part was yet to come.
There was no way I could manage all these demands and keep my job. If Jake wanted me to follow his absurd schedule full-time, he’d have to cover my lost income. I calculated my salary and added it to the list. “$75,000 per year to replace Lisa’s salary since she will now be your full-time maid, chef, and personal assistant.”
By now, I was laughing so hard my stomach hurt.
And just for fun, I added a note about expanding the house. If Jake was going to have friends over all the time, they’d need a separate space. “$50,000 to build a man cave so Jake and his friends don’t disrupt Lisa’s new routine.”
I printed out the list, set it on the kitchen counter, and waited for Jake to come home. When he arrived, he was in a good mood.
“Hey, babe,” he called, spotting the paper. “What’s this?”
Keeping a straight face, I said, “Oh, just a little list to help you become the best husband ever.”
He chuckled, thinking I was playing along, but as he read the list, his smile faded. “$1,200 for a trainer? $700 a month for groceries? What the hell, Lisa?”
I crossed my arms. “Well, you want me to follow your plan, right? I figured we should budget for it.”
His face turned pale as he flipped through the pages. “$75,000 a year? You’re quitting your job?”
“How else can I follow your plan?” I asked. “I can’t work and be the perfect wife, right?”
Jake looked stunned. The numbers and the absurdity of his demands hit him all at once. His smugness disappeared, replaced by the realization that he had messed up.
“I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he stammered. “I just thought—”
“You thought you could ‘fix’ me like a project?” I said, my voice calm but firm. “Jake, marriage is about respect. And if you ever try to ‘fix’ me like this again, it’ll cost you a lot more than what’s on that paper.”
There was a long silence. Jake sighed and looked at me, defeated.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize how ridiculous it was. Steve made it sound reasonable, but now I see… it’s toxic. I’ve been such a fool.”
I nodded. “Yes, you have. And honestly, Steve has no idea what he’s talking about. Why would you listen to him?”
Jake’s face softened as the truth hit him. “You’re right. He has no clue.”
We tore up both lists, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like we were back on the same team. It was a reminder that marriage isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being better together.
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