“It was 7 p.m. by the time my husband got home from work ― delayed by a stop-off at the grocery store to pick up the necessities: milk, eggs, Kotex pads (the long ones),” writes HuffPost guest writer Jeanne Sager.⁠ ⁠ “Perched on an exercise ball in the middle of our living room, a warm towel fresh from the dryer splayed on my lap as I folded laundry, my welcome home greeting was followed by a request. ‘Can you make dinner, please?’”⁠ ⁠ “Shedding his wool coat and shooting the cuffs of his collared work shirt up his arms, he nodded, already shoving his fingers beneath the running tap water to ready for dinner prep. ‘On it.’”⁠ ⁠ “The word I tend to hear when I let slip that my husband makes homemade cinnamon rolls or stows his own socks in his drawers is ‘lucky.’”⁠ ⁠ “‘Wow,’ the women — it’s always other women — say. ’You’re lucky. I wish my husband did that.’”⁠ ⁠ “But our understanding wasn’t automatic. It’s been hard-earned. Now I ask, but that’s only after years of demanding.”⁠ ⁠ “Raised by a mother who largely stayed at home and a husband who liked it that way, my husband knew little about home labor when we were first married, and even less about cooking.”⁠ ⁠ Head to our link in bio to read the full story.