I looked up from the dryer and saw my man in the kitchen. I was switching over what felt like the 200th load of the day, while he was chopping onions and peppers, getting dinner ready for tomorrow. His boots still sat by the hall, fresh from a long week of work. He cuts and dices, I fold and sort. Together, we keep the house running.
I paused for a moment, the laundry still damp in my hands, just watching the back of his head. I thought about how sometimes he cooks while I mow the grass. Sometimes he gets up with the kids while I sleep. Sometimes I drive, and he rides. Sometimes I work, and he rests. I don’t think there’s ever a perfect way to split the load—but I do know this: whenever it feels too heavy for me, my man always steps in.
And maybe that’s what matters most. There’s no need to keep score or track every chore.
Tonight, he cooks while I fold. And somehow, the load in my hands feels just a little bit lighter.
Credit: Jenn Kish
