I Wish I Had a Wife

I’m not saying I don’t love my husband—I do. He’s a good man, a kind man, and a present father. But sometimes, when I’m standing in the kitchen at 9:37 p.m., loading a dishwasher full of crusty lunchboxes, mentally calculating how many hours of sleep I’ll get before my 6 a.m. alarm goes off, I find myself thinking: I wish I had a wife.

Not in a romantic way. Not in a leave-my-husband-and-start-over way. I mean in the very old-school, domestic 1950s-housewife kind of way. I wish I had someone—preferably in matching silk pajamas—who took care of everything behind the scenes so my life could flow like a well-directed Broadway show. Because let me tell you, being a working mom in 2025 is like starring in a three-ring circus where you’re the acrobat, the ticket seller, and the janitor.

Let’s play a little game of “Imagine If.”

Imagine if, after a long day at work filled with meetings, deadlines, and that one co-worker who still doesn’t know how to forward an email properly, I came home to a hot meal and a clean house. Not because I did it. Not because I begged my husband to do it. But because I had a wife who just… handled it.

I wouldn’t have to yell upstairs at my kids for the fifth time to brush their teeth while simultaneously folding laundry and mentally prepping tomorrow’s grocery list. The lunchboxes would magically get cleaned, the kids’ backpacks would be stocked with permission slips and signed reading logs, and the fridge would contain more than just oat milk and half an avocado from last week.

I wish I had a wife who remembered the pediatrician appointments without needing three Google Calendar reminders. Someone who instinctively knew when the toilet paper supply was low and restocked it before it became a household emergency. A woman who could actually find the matching sock to the mystery one that’s been floating around my dryer for two weeks.

You know what else? A wife would get me. She wouldn’t ask, “What’s for dinner?” while I’m clearly elbow-deep in making it. She wouldn’t leave wet towels on the floor and say, “Oh, I forgot.” She wouldn’t wait for me to point out the dirty dishes in the sink—she’d just see them. Because a wife would understand the mental load that comes with running a home. And she wouldn’t call it “helping out.” She’d just do it.

Sometimes I look at my husband and think, “You need a wife, too.” Because somehow, the idea of a wife still carries the cultural expectation of being the default caretaker—the one who remembers, plans, coordinates, and fixes. The one who keeps the invisible wheels turning. The one who doesn’t clock out. And as a wife myself, I’ve become everyone’s wife. My kids’, my husband’s, my boss’s. And I am so tired.

Imagine if I had a wife who understood that when I say, “I’m fine,” I’m really saying, “I need twenty uninterrupted minutes in the bathroom with a glass of wine and no one asking me what a mitochondria is.” A wife who booked my wax appointments without me having to scroll through three different apps. A wife who made sure the kids had shoes that fit, socks without holes, and a homemade Halloween costume that doesn’t involve a last-minute Amazon Prime panic-buy.

I wish I had a wife who didn’t make me feel guilty for not wanting to have sex after a 12-hour day. Someone who said, “You look exhausted. I ran you a bath. Go relax.” Who wouldn’t expect a conversation until I’d decompressed and maybe eaten a snack. A wife who prioritized my needs the way I’m expected to prioritize everyone else’s.

Of course, this mythical wife doesn’t exist. She’s a fantasy—a perfectly organized, emotionally intelligent, endlessly patient human being who somehow finds joy in sorting socks and color-coding calendars. But the thing is, she shouldn’t be a fantasy. She shouldn’t be the unattainable unicorn of emotional labor and domestic perfection. She should be the norm—or at least, the shared responsibility.

I wish we lived in a world where the labor traditionally assigned to “wives” wasn’t so gendered or devalued. Where having a partner—regardless of gender—meant equally sharing the weight of living. Where I didn’t feel the need to fantasize about having a second version of myself just to make it all work.

Because at the end of the day, what I really want is not a wife, but equality. A life where I don’t carry the burden of two people just because I happen to be the one with ovaries. A household where “partnership” isn’t just a sweet word we used in our vows, but a daily practice. A husband who isn’t just willing to do the dishes when I ask—but one who sees the chaos, feels the urgency, and steps in without needing applause.

But until then, I’ll keep folding the laundry with one hand, helping my kid with math homework with the other, and fantasizing about the wife I’ll never have. She’s got short nails, a sharp mind, and somehow makes broccoli that everyone actually eats. And when I finally fall into bed at night, dead tired and overstimulated, I’ll dream of her whispering, “I already prepped tomorrow’s lunches. Go to sleep.”

And that? That’s the kind of love story I could really get behind.