“My Mother Needs the Washing Machine More,” my husband announced as he rolled my machine toward the exit. He didn’t get very far.
“True virtue requires sacrifice,” my husband declared in a lecturing tone, leaning his chest against the massive metal cart.
“That’s why the washing machine is going to Mom’s,” he added more quietly and pushed the cart forward.
I stopped near the entrance to our apartment building, trying to comprehend the absurdity of the scene unfolding before me. My lawful husband, who normally avoided any physical exertion more demanding than moving a computer mouse, had suddenly transformed into a champion laborer.
Perched proudly on an iron platform borrowed from an acquaintance who worked in a warehouse was my personal household appliance. The very one I had bought entirely with my own savings before Oleg and I ever exchanged rings at the registry office. For years, I had begged my previous washing machine to spin a duvet cover without first taking a running tour around the entire bathroom, so I treasured this new one like the apple of my eye.
And now my treasure, carefully wrapped in thick protective film, was preparing to leave its rightful home.
Male self-sacrifice is a remarkable phenomenon. It always unfolds on a truly royal scale—provided someone else is paying for the banquet.
“And where, may I ask, is my property going?” I asked again, because the first time my husband had said it so quietly that he seemed to understand that saying such stupidity out loud might be dangerous.
Oleg wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and looked at me with the mild superiority of an enlightened philanthropist.
“Mom needs it more. Her old one rattles during the spin cycle. We’ll buy ourselves another one later.”
The masculine pronoun “we,” when used in financial matters, has a miraculous meaning: the husband generates the idea, while the wife becomes the sponsor. A magnificent business model.
“Does Tamara Ilyinichna’s religion forbid her from calling a repairman?” I asked, maintaining outward calm.
“Mom said there’s no point repairing an old piece of junk when we have an almost new, spacious machine just sitting here,” Oleg suddenly declared with impressive firmness, displaying a strength of character I had rarely seen before.
He patted the washing machine on its plastic-wrapped side.
“I’ve already shut off the water, disconnected the hoses, drained what was left, and called a cargo taxi. It’ll be here soon. A real man makes decisions quickly.”
Married life teaches you one important lesson: the louder your spouse talks about nobility, the tighter you should hold onto your wallet.
I didn’t start an argument.
“Fine,” I said with an agreeable smile. “Wait one minute.”
A flash of undisguised triumph appeared in Oleg’s eyes. He had clearly expected tears, shouting, and me grabbing onto the power cord. Instead, he was rewarded with peaceful obedience. My husband puffed out his chest proudly, apparently expecting me to bring down the warranty card or instruction manual.
I went upstairs to the apartment.
I quickly pulled our largest wheeled suitcase down from the storage shelf. I threw in Oleg’s shirts, jeans, and spare underwear. Then I mercilessly crammed in the heavy box containing his precious fishing gear.
Next, I grabbed the suitcase handle with one hand, picked up an overflowing basket of his dirty laundry with the other, and tucked his beloved orthopedic pillow firmly under my arm.
When I returned to the entrance, the cargo taxi still hadn’t arrived.
But our neighbor, Gennady Petrovich, was already sitting on the bench nearby. A retired man and formerly an excellent household-appliance repairman, he was watching the moving operation with genuine interest.
I carefully placed the suitcase beside the cart, set the laundry basket on top, and added the pillow.
“What’s that?” the great philanthropist asked, blinking in confusion as he stared at his belongings.
“What do you mean? Accessories,” I replied sweetly.
“You see, darling, my washing machine is being transferred to your mother only as a complete package. It comes with the primary supplier of dirty socks.”
I gave the laundry basket a meaningful pat.
“Next comes the chief specialist responsible for purchasing detergent. The package also includes the person who will pay the water and electricity bills and cover the equipment’s wear and tear.”
The neighbor quietly snorted from the bench, hiding a smile beneath his mustache.
“And naturally, your belongings are going with you,” I concluded.
“You said it yourself: a real man makes decisions. So I decided to expand your generous gift a little.”
Oleg was speechless, his lips moving silently.
“Have you lost your mind?” he snapped irritably, glancing nervously at the chuckling Gennady Petrovich.
“Not at all,” I replied, pulling out my smartphone.
I tapped the video-call icon.
Tamara Ilyinichna answered almost immediately. Apparently, she had been sitting by the screen waiting for her long-awaited prize.
“Olezhka, sweetheart, will you bring it soon?” my mother-in-law’s syrupy voice came through the speaker.
“Hello, Tamara Ilyinichna!” I said brightly into the camera, gently pushing my bewildered husband aside with my shoulder.
“Good news! I’m sending you not only the washing machine, but Olezhka as its permanent maintenance technician. He’s coming with his clothes, fishing rods, and favorite pillow. Now you’ll have someone to press the buttons and connect the water!”
My mother-in-law’s pleasant expression instantly vanished from the screen. Her honeyed tone disappeared, replaced by hard domestic practicality.
“What do you mean, Olezhka?” Tamara Ilyinichna protested, her glasses flashing.
“Where am I supposed to put him? My apartment is tiny, and the sofa is covered with bowls of jam! Besides, a grown man needs feeding. Have you seen grocery prices? I only wanted the washing machine from you!”
“What a shame,” I sighed sympathetically.
“We’re running a special promotion: take someone else’s property and receive your son back with full room and board. We don’t deliver them separately.”
Generosity at someone else’s expense is the easiest way to feel important, but someone still has to pay the delivery charges.
“Hold on,” Gennady Petrovich interrupted from the bench, narrowing one eye slyly.
“Ilyinichna, what exactly happened to your old machine?”
My mother-in-law, still glaring angrily at the screen, reluctantly muttered:
“It knocks terribly when it spins. Sounds like stones rolling around inside. Makes an awful racket.”
The neighbor rubbed his gray stubble.
“Stones, you say? Your drain filter is probably just clogged with small debris. A coin may have gotten in there, or an underwire from a bra. It’s practically a free repair. Unscrew the plug at the bottom, pull out the junk, rinse it, screw it back in. And you people have organized the Great Migration of Nations over it.”
An awkward silence followed.
Oleg’s face began turning dark red.
His grand operation to save his mother using somebody else’s property was rapidly turning into a cheap farce.
At that exact moment, a grimy cargo van rattled up to the entrance. A gloomy, sleep-deprived driver leaned out of the cab.
“You ordered a truck? Load it quickly. I’ve got another call waiting and I’m not standing around!”
Oleg shuffled from foot to foot, helplessly looking from the packed suitcase to the cart, then to our smirking neighbor, and finally to me.
“Well, if you’ve made your decision, finish what you started,” I encouraged him, thoroughly enjoying myself.
“Only the route has changed slightly.”
I clearly explained the new arrangement.
Instead of taking my property to his mother, Oleg would immediately pay for the unnecessary cargo taxi out of his own pocket.
Then, using the very same cart, he would carefully roll everything back into our apartment without damaging the tiles in the entrance.
He would reconnect the hoses and thoroughly check that the machine was level so there would be no vibration.
After that, he would go to Tamara Ilyinichna’s apartment, clean her washing machine filter with his own golden hands, and put everything in order.
The taxi driver, tired of waiting through a free comedy show, honked impatiently.
“Buddy, either we load something or you pay the cancellation fee!” he shouted across the street.
Muttering curses under his breath, Oleg reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for his wallet.
Parting with his own money was visibly painful.
The great strategist was purchasing an expensive ticket to his own defeat.
“Need help carrying it back in, neighbor?” Gennady Petrovich offered with exaggerated concern after the van drove away.
“I’ll manage myself!” Oleg snapped.
He harnessed himself to the cart and, groaning loudly, pushed it over the high concrete threshold.
His triumphant procession had turned into public humiliation.
Oleg spent the rest of the day sweating in our cramped bathroom.
It turned out that during his rushed, heroic disconnection job, he had completely stripped the thread on the water inlet hose.
He had to stop everything, run to the hardware store, buy replacement parts with his own money, then spend a long and humiliating time wiping dirty puddles from the tiled floor.
That evening, exhausted, smeared with machine grease, and unbelievably angry, he returned from his mother’s apartment.
Gennady Petrovich had been absolutely right.
From the depths of Tamara Ilyinichna’s washing machine, Oleg had ceremoniously extracted a pearly button, a handful of rusty coins, a bent hairpin, and the notorious metal underwire from a bra.
After the simple cleaning, the old machine began operating almost silently, like an expensive Swiss watch.
Naturally, my mother-in-law tried to complain that her son had failed to bring her the shiny new washing machine, but Oleg merely growled and waved her off wearily.
His heroic impulse had ended in unexpected expenses, a strained back, a completely ruined weekend, and the well-deserved status of our apartment building’s chief source of entertainment.
From that day onward, the balance of power in our family changed dramatically.
Whenever Tamara Ilyinichna called with another complaint about a malfunctioning appliance, a blinking display, or a suspiciously noisy motor, clearly expecting an immediate offering, my husband would let out a heavy sigh and deliver the lifesaving phrase that had become his trademark:
“Mom, check the filter first.”
And my washing machine remains safely in its rightful place, shining clean and serving as a permanent reminder of the importance of personal property.
By the way, ladies, if one of your relatives suddenly becomes inspired to dispose of your belongings in the name of lofty moral values, don’t waste your nerves arguing.
Agree.
But make sure you include the generous benefactor himself as part of the package.
Life experience shows that absolutely everyone loves receiving someone else’s property.
Strangely enough, however, nobody seems particularly eager to take care of the fully grown knight who comes with it.