By the time I picked Danny up from school, I was drained. The house was a wreck, the laundry untouched, dishes stacked high, and the air still smelled faintly of burnt chicken. I expected judgment from my son, but instead, he offered help. Calmly, he showed me how to use the washing machine, then the dishwasher—stuff I couldn’t figure out all day.
“Mom taught me,” he said with a shrug. That’s when it hit me: the problem wasn’t the chores—it was my attitude. I had mocked the effort behind a functioning home, but now, knee-deep in laundry and humility, I saw it clearly. My wife hadn’t been complaining—she’d been holding it all together. And I had never once said thank you.
