I’ve been married to Paolo for seven years, and in all that time, I’ve rarely seen him touch a sponge, let alone clean the sink. As far as he’s concerned, dishes must vanish into thin air—except they don’t. I’m the one who makes them disappear. Every single time.
And it’s not just the dishes. It’s the way he’ll abandon a cereal bowl with a puddle of milk right next to the sink, like the finish line was just too far. Or how he’ll say, “Just rinse it, babe, I’ll do it later,” when “later” turns out to be a myth.
I used to fight him on it. Then I begged. Then I gave up and just did them myself, because rotting spaghetti water is not something I’m willing to live with.
But something shifted last Thursday.
I came home exhausted, walked into the kitchen, and saw that same crusty coffee mug from three days ago sitting exactly where I left it. Paolo was kicked back on the couch, snacking on chips and watching basketball like he was at an all-inclusive resort.
I didn’t say a word. Just smiled and got to work…in a different way.
That night, I made his favorite: chicken parmesan. He was thrilled—posted a pic on his story and everything. “My queen 👑,” he wrote.
What he didn’t know? I made a subtle tweak to the recipe.
Nothing wild or dangerous. Just enough to throw him off. I swapped a little sugar for salt and added a dash of cayenne. The result? Just unfamiliar enough to make him pause mid-bite.
He looked at me, confused. “Did you change something?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
The next morning, I walked into the kitchen expecting the usual chaos. But everything was clean. Sink? Empty. Countertops? Wiped down. Dishes? Done.
Paolo didn’t say anything, but I could tell something had clicked.
That night, I got home late again. My phone had died, so I hadn’t seen his texts. When I walked in, the smell of garlic and herbs greeted me. Paolo stood in the doorway of the kitchen, smiling awkwardly.
“I made dinner,” he said. “Pasta primavera.”
It wasn’t perfect—peas still frozen, carrots a little mushy—but it was effort. Real, sincere effort. And I was floored.
We laughed through dinner, and when he got up and took our plates to the sink, I nearly passed out.
Over the next week, he kept it up. Cleaning as he cooked. Wiping up spills. Even lecturing me when I tried to do everything myself. “You’ve had a long day—go sit down.”
Eventually, he asked me about that chicken parm. “Did you do something to it?”
I admitted it. The sugar, the spice, the point I was trying to make.
Instead of being mad, he laughed. “Honestly? I thought I’d done something to upset you. I’ve been overthinking that chicken for days.”
I told him how overwhelmed I’d felt, how tired I was of carrying the whole mental load at home. He got it. Apologized for not stepping up. Promised to do better.
And he has.
One week later, I came home to find Paolo installing a brand-new dishwasher he’d bought on sale. “Figured this would make things easier,” he said, shrugging.
It was like living in an alternate reality—in the best way.
The truth is, I learned something, too. While my little kitchen sabotage got his attention, the real fix came from finally opening up and being honest about how I felt. No games, no drama—just truth.
Marriage takes teamwork. And sometimes? A little salt swap and a whole lot of love.
So if you’re feeling invisible in your own home—start the conversation. If that doesn’t work, well… there’s always chicken parm.