Let me tell you, friends—marriage can be a battlefield. Imagine this: I’m 28, happily married to my wife (who’s 30), and we’re on year two after five blissful years together. We had baby plans, but oh boy, those are on the back burner for now. We both work similar hours and make similar incomes, so you’d think we’d have our lives all figured out, right?

At first, we had this brilliant chore system. We’d play a round of rock-paper-scissors to divvy up our days off, which felt pretty fair. She got more dish duties, while I took charge of the laundry.

Now, here’s the plot twist: My wife absolutely loathes doing dishes. Her hatred is so profound that she sometimes shuts down and cries at the sight of them. Being the supportive husband that I am, I’d rush over, take over the chore, soothe her, and all would be well. Or so I thought…

One day, I realized her tears would magically disappear the moment I took over. Suspicion confirmed: she was faking it! There wasn’t a hint of stress recovery; she just went off to enjoy herself, laughing and carefree. So, we updated our system. Now, whoever made the mess had to clean it up, except for cooks—they were spared from washing pots and pans because, hey, who wants to wash after slaving over a hot stove?

This arrangement worked for a while until she started piling up dishes and not washing them. After making dinner at her request one day, I asked when she planned on washing the dishes. It sparked an argument, but I held my ground and didn’t touch them. The next day, she questioned the dirty dishes, and I calmly pointed out that they were her responsibility. Cue another fight. Unhappy me did the dishes once more.

As for laundry—my specialty since she refuses to do it anymore—she only had to put clothes in the basket, but even that became a struggle. We have three baskets: darks, colors, and whites. She also insists on a separate basket for her delicates, which I handwash. But she started leaving clothes on the floor because “I always pick it up.” The Mr. Nice Guy in me washed them for a while, but then I let them pile up.

Her reaction was predictable. She blew up when she realized her clothes weren’t done. We rehashed the same argument, and nothing changed. Our fights escalated, and she started retaliating by getting lazier. She began buying new dishes and clothes to avoid doing her part. Yup—plastic utensils, paper plates, Walmart t-shirts—her solution to responsibility.

I couldn’t believe it. In a small act of defiance, I started tossing out her cheap substitutes. When she noticed, she exploded again. And that was the first time I raised my voice. My deep, booming voice scared her, and instantly, I regretted it. I softened my tone, explaining that she wasn’t pulling her weight and wasting money on unnecessary things. She cried, and despite my apologies, she told me she didn’t feel safe and suggested we might be better off divorcing. That shattered me.

I felt isolated, like no one really understood my side. My female friends stayed neutral or sided with her, and I felt friendships slipping away. Here I was, feeling like a jerk, even though all I wanted was for her to clean up after herself. I’d never hurt her before, never raised my voice, but my frustration had boiled over months of pent-up anger.

Did I overreact? Should I have just continued picking up after her like a dutiful spouse? Maybe. I realize now that throwing away her disposable items was also an immature move. But can you blame me for wanting a partner who shares the load?