My f16 father m46 is the “breadwinner” while mom is a sahm. She handles everything around the house like cooking, mopping, washing, laundry, etc. I’m the oldest and I try to help but really there’s only so much I can do while my dad just gets home at the end of the day and literally complains about everything, like how the carpet isn’t clean or how the food is cold.
As a result, I’d have to listen to a huge argument daily between him and mom. It’s exhausting but honestly… I think that my dad is in the wrong here. I tried talking to him to get him to see how his behavior is but to no avail. So what I did was pick a day off for him and pretend to act like him. I put together an outfit that looked like a suit and put black tape over my lips to look like a mustache.
At 6pm, I went inside the house. Shouted “I’M HOME!” then sat next to him in the living room and started kicking my shoes while complaining about the state of the house at the top of my lungs. He glanced at me confused asking what I was doing. I ignored him then started yelling about the carpet being dirty, shower not ready, the kids needing to be quiet and so on.
At first, no one said anything. My mom froze in the kitchen, holding a spoon mid-air, like she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. My younger siblings stared at me with wide eyes, clearly unsure if this was a joke or if I’d finally lost it. I kept going, copying his exact tone, the sharp sighs, the exaggerated frustration, even the way he drops his bag and rubs his forehead like the weight of the world is crushing him. I complained about dinner being late even though it was still cooking, about the lights being on, about the TV being too loud, about nothing and everything all at once.
That’s when my dad stood up. He told me to stop, said I was being disrespectful and embarrassing. I looked straight at him and said, in the same voice he uses every single day, “I work all day, is it too much to ask for a clean house and some peace when I get home?” The room went silent. For a moment, he just stared at me, and I could see something shift on his face—not anger, not yelling, but confusion mixed with discomfort.
My mom slowly sat down on the couch. She didn’t defend me, but she didn’t stop me either. That alone said more than words ever could. I asked my dad if it sounded familiar, if hearing it all at once felt overwhelming, if it felt unfair. He snapped back that he was tired and stressed and that I didn’t understand adult responsibilities. I told him maybe he didn’t understand what it felt like to live in a house where every evening starts with tension and ends in shouting.
For the first time, he didn’t immediately argue. He sat back down, rubbing his face, quieter than I’d ever seen him. My mom finally spoke, her voice calm but tired, and said she felt like she was never doing enough no matter how hard she tried. She said she dreaded evenings because she knew nothing would be right. Hearing that seemed to hit him harder than anything I said.
I took the tape mustache off and told him I wasn’t trying to mock him, I was trying to show him how it feels from our side. I told him I loved him, but I hated the way our home felt when he walked through the door. I hated seeing my mom shrink and my siblings go silent. I hated feeling powerless.
That night ended without yelling. No dramatic apology, no sudden transformation, just a quiet dinner and an uneasy calm. Over the next few days, things didn’t magically become perfect, but they changed. He complained less. When he did start, he caught himself. He even thanked my mom for dinner once, something so small it almost made her cry.
I don’t know if holding up that mirror fixed everything, but it cracked something open. Sometimes people don’t realize who they’ve become until they see themselves reflected back. And sometimes, that reflection is uncomfortable enough to finally make them stop and look.