Chapter 5 - Market Corrections
By Tuesday afternoon, the free market had delivered its first major correction to the Pierce household.
Colin had spent Monday night sleeping on the lumpy pull-out sofa in his basement home office, having realized that storming out or calling my bluff wasn't going to work. When he tried to wake me at 6:00 a.m. to ask where his ironed button-down shirt was, I pointed calmly to the overflowing laundry basket and reminded him that my domestic services contract had been formally suspended.
"Your shirts are in the basket, Colin," I said from the kitchen island, sipping my coffee left-handed while Ruby sat happily in her bouncer nearby. "Feel free to use the iron in the utility closet. Watch your good hand—it gets hot."
By Tuesday evening, the reality of his new financial and domestic landscape began to set in with terrifying speed.
At 4:30 p.m., the doorbell rang. I opened it to find a professional cleaning crew from Sparkle & Shine Maid Service standing on the porch with two large industrial vacuums and a rolling cart of chemical supplies.
"Pierce residence for the bi-weekly deep clean?" the lead cleaner asked, holding a clipboard.
"Yes! Come right in," I said cheerfully, stepping aside. "The kitchen and master bath are top priorities. Feel free to ignore the home office in the basement—that zone is strictly self-managed."
As the cleaning crew marched past me into the house, Colin walked up the driveway, having just returned from his corporate office in Lisle. He stopped dead on the front porch, staring at the commercial cleaning van parked in our driveway, then at the two strangers carrying mop buckets into our foyer.
He dropped his briefcase on the welcome mat and stormed into the kitchen, his face flushed a deep, angry crimson.
"Nat! What is the meaning of this? Why are there strangers in our house?"
"That’s the bi-weekly cleaning service I contracted," I replied, not looking up from the board book I was reading to Owen. "Remember? Item two on your spreadsheet. $450 a month. Since I can't scrub baseboards with a broken arm, and you certainly weren't going to do it, I outsourced it. Your half of the invoice was automatically debited this morning."
Colin grabbed his hair with both hands, looking around the kitchen as the sound of vacuum cleaners began to roar from the living room. "This is insane! You're draining our liquid cash flow over a petty argument!"
"Petty?" I set the book down, my eyes locking onto his with absolute, razor-sharp clarity. "Colin, you quantified my existence. You treated my postpartum recovery and my daily sacrifice as a line-item inefficiency. If you want corporate efficiency, you get corporate pricing. Welcome to reality."
Before he could formulate a response, his cell phone rang shrilly from his pants pocket.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and groaned. It was his mother, calling from Ohio.
"What?" he snapped into the phone, his voice sharp.
I couldn't hear what his mother was saying on the other end, but judging by the sudden stiffening of Colin’s spine and the look of sheer mortification that washed over his face, she wasn't calling to talk about the weather.
"Mom... no... everything is fine... yes, Nat broke her arm... no, we don't need you to drive out here—"
He listened for another ten seconds, his face turning the color of a bruised plum.
"Fine! Yes! I'll tell her!"
He slammed the phone down onto the counter, glaring at me with unadulterated fury.
"My mother is driving out from Toledo on Thursday," he hissed through clenched teeth.
I raised an eyebrow, taking a calm sip of my water. "Oh? How lovely. Does she want the guest room cleaned? Because the maids are here right now—we can add an extra hour to your invoice."
"She heard about your arm through Beth," Colin snarled, his voice rising in pitch. "And she apparently also heard about your little 'corporate strike,' because Beth called my sister Sarah, who called my mother, and now my entire family thinks I'm a tyrannical CEO who won't change diapers for his injured wife!"
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"Well," I said smoothly, standing up and scooping Owen into my left arm with practiced ease. "Your mother has always been very big on personal accountability and fiscal responsibility. I'm sure she'll be deeply impressed by your cost-benefit analysis."
Colin opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. The roar of the vacuum cleaners in the hallway drowned out whatever threat he was about to make, perfectly punctuating the absolute collapse of his domestic monopoly.
