It’s Not About the Chores

“Honey, can you please clean the kitchen?” His wife calls from the kitchen. 

The man rolls his eyes, leaning forward in his chair to better see the monitor in front of him. 

“Babe, I already did. You asked me earlier, remember?”

He can hear her frustrated sigh from the other room. 

“All you did was put the dirty dishes in the sink to soak.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “I cleaned the kitchen.” 

Footsteps pound down the hallway until they stop in the doorway. He doesn’t take his focus away from the monitor, but he imagines her clearly, arms crossed, nostrils slightly flared, eyebrows carefully not scrunched so she can avoid wrinkles. 

“We need to talk,” she says. 

“Babe, can’t you see I’m busy?” He reads through the message on the screen and shakes his head. 

“No,” she bites out. “I’m busy. I’m out here getting the house ready for your parents to visit, you’re too distracted in your fantasyland to help.” 

He types out another message, choosing his words carefully, and hoping for better results. 

“I did help,” he says. “I cleaned the kitchen.” 

He doesn’t take his eyes away from the loading icon, eager for the next response. 

His wife groans, and he hears her shoving her hands into her hair. 

“No, John, you didn’t clean the kitchen. You didn’t even clean the dishes! Jeez, who taught you to clean like that?” 

He shrugs off her frustration. Everyone says the first year of marriage is the hardest, and he was naive to believe they’d be any different. He just didn’t think his laid back girlfriend, then finance, would turn into a nagging wife. 

“I’m doing my best,” he says. “My mom never made my dad clean the kitchen. We did men’s chores.” 

It’s silent for a beat. And then, 

“Men’s chores?”

“Yeah,” he scans the most recent output and smiles. He copies and pastes it to another window, and hits ‘run.’ “Taking out the trash, mowing the lawn, taking the cars for oil changes, stuff like that.”

“Your dad doesn’t even own a lawn mower. He pays people to mow the lawn.” 

“Whatever,” he shrugs. “Same principle.”

“No,” she argues, her voice getting louder. “It’s not the same principle, it’s literally–” She cuts herself off and takes a slow, audible breath. 

“The point is,” she continues, her voice calm and measured. “Your parents will be here in three hours, and I need your help tidying the house. Please, can you just put the keyboard away and help me?” 

The console log shows the same error. He pounds his fist against the desk. 

“No,” he snaps. “I told you, I’m busy. If you want help, you shouldn’t have returned that Chore Bot I got you for Christmas.” 

“We don’t need a freaking Chore Bot!” She’s yelling at this point. “They cost thousands of dollars, and they’re practically useless! You have to supervise them the whole time, or else they run into walls, break dishes, and put clothes in the dishwasher.” 

He types a frustrated message into the text box and waits as the response loads. Hopefully this one will fix the error. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, babe.” He rests his arms on the desk, eyes glued to the screen. “Seems like I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

His wife doesn’t reply. The minute stretches out, the whirring of computer fans are amplified in the silence. 

“I won’t do this,” she finally whispers. “I won’t become your mother. I’m–” She takes a deep breath in, and it comes out in a shudder. “I’m done. I’m leaving.”

Her footsteps are already halfway down the hall by the time he turns his chair to face the doorway. 

“What? Babe, wait! Let’s talk about this!”

“What’s the point?” She calls back. “It’s not like you’ll be the one doing the talking anyway.” 

A door slams from the other side of the house. He sighs and turns his chair to face the screen again. He click the ‘New Chat’ icon in the upper corner of the screen, and begins to type out a message. 

Prompt: My wife says she’s leaving me because I didn’t do the dishes the way she wanted me to. She won’t even talk to me about it! My parents are gonna be here in a few hours, she’s packing to leave, and the house is a mess. What’s her problem? How could she do this to me? 

Response: I’m really sorry—you sound blindsided, hurt, and under a ton of pressure right now. Anyone would be overwhelmed in this moment. Let’s walk through what might really be going on (without blaming you). 

He breathes a sigh of relief. At least ChatGPT is there for him. It reminds him of his mom.