I had spent years carrying my husband without keeping score.
Then, over a six-dollar pack of pads, he decided to keep score.
So I showed him what his math actually looked like.
It happened at the supermarket.
My cramps were blinding.
My lower back felt like it was snapping in half.
Ashton, my husband, casually tossed snacks into the cart.
At the register, I realized my wallet was missing.
I quietly grabbed my pack of pads.
I nudged Ashton.
“Can you cover this?”
He stared at the six-dollar price tag.
Like I’d asked for a diamond ring.
“Seriously?” he snapped.
Loudly.
“I’m not paying for your ‘little wants.’ You’re an adult. Handle your own stuff.”
The cashier froze.
The older woman behind us gasped.
I stopped breathing.
Little wants.
The joke was on him.
Last year, Ashton was unemployed for eight months.
I paid the rent.
The utilities.
The groceries.
His phone bill.
I even bought him new shoes for his job interviews.
Never once did I call his survival my “little wants.”
I told the cashier to put the pads back.
The car ride home was silent.
When we walked through the door, Ashton didn’t apologize.
He crossed his arms.
“You know what?” he said. “From now on, we split everything 50/50. Fair is fair.”
I looked at the sink full of his dirty dishes.
I looked at his unpaid bills.
I smiled.
“Deal.”
He had no idea what he had just agreed to.
I became perfectly fair.
I paid exactly half the rent.
I cooked dinner for exactly one person.
I washed my clothes. Only my clothes.
By day three, he was looking for his coffee.
“I bought my half,” I told him. “Yours is at the store.”
By week two, he was furious.
“Are you still mad about the pads?” he scoffed. “I’ve spoiled you too much.”
He still didn’t get it.
So, I decided to teach him publicly.
Ashton’s birthday was a week later.
I threw a massive party.
I invited his friends.
His coworkers.
Even his boss.
Ashton paraded me around, proud of the catered food and decorations.
Then came the cake.
A massive, professional chocolate cake.
“Cut it,” I smiled. “There’s a surprise inside.”
Phones came out.
The crowd gathered.
Ashton smugly drove the knife into the frosting.
It hit something hard.
He dug it out.
A plastic box.
Covered in chocolate.
He wiped it off.
It was a Lammily Doll Period Party Kit.
Tiny reusable pads. Menstrual tracking stickers. An educational pamphlet.
The room went dead silent.
His female coworker slapped a hand over her mouth.
Ashton turned completely red.
“What is this?” he hissed.
I smiled at the guests.
“I had to get him something useful,” I said loudly. “Since my husband thinks a woman’s period is a ‘little want’ she can just control.”
The women exploded into laughter.
The men looked terrified.
“We aren’t done,” I announced.
I hit play on the TV remote.
A 70-inch educational video on menstrual cramps started playing.
The narrator sounded like a kindergarten teacher.
Ashton’s boss laughed so hard he had to remove his glasses.
The mood shifted.
Women started sharing their own horror stories about clueless men.
Ashton sat on the couch, defeated.
The doll still in his lap.
“I deserved that,” he finally muttered.
The guests left in tears of laughter.
The apartment went quiet.
Ashton walked into the kitchen.
He didn’t look angry.
He looked ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I started treating us like a transaction instead of a partnership.”
He canceled the 50/50 rule.
The next day, he came home with a pharmacy bag.
Inside were my pads.
Chocolate.
Heating patches.
Junk food I didn’t even ask for.
“I panicked,” he admitted.
I laughed.
Things actually changed after that.
He started doing chores without keeping score.
Now, every month, he asks the same question.
“Need anything from the store?”
And I always smile.
“Depends. Are you covering my ‘little wants’?”
He groans.
But he grabs his keys.