Every home has its rules—the kind you break at your own risk.
I should’ve known better.
A Rule is a Rule
Living with Emily means living by the rules.
Not in a strict, joyless way—but in that efficient, no-nonsense way that keeps our home running smoothly. And of all the little systems we have in place, the laundry rule is carved in stone:
“If it’s not in the basket, it doesn’t get washed.”
Fair enough.
And yet, somehow, I still can’t seem to get it right.
I’ll take off my socks and leave them just a few inches from the basket. My shirts end up slung over the back of the chair, my jeans tossed by the bed.
Close, but not close enough.
And Emily? She doesn’t remind me. She doesn’t scold me.
She just follows the rule.
So, when I’m out of clean gym shorts or hunting for that one shirt I swear I washed, she simply shrugs. “If it’s not in the basket, it doesn’t get washed.”
That one sentence has bitten me more times than I care to admit.
But last Saturday, the universe finally handed me the perfect chance to turn the tables.
Emily was rushing to get ready for a work event on Monday. In the flurry of it all, she peeled off her outfit from the day and tossed it—not in the basket, but lazily over the chair in our bedroom.
I spotted it while grabbing the laundry. I paused, standing there with a pile of towels in my hands, staring at her carefully folded work blouse hanging over the chair.
I could’ve picked it up.
But where’s the fun in that?
I smiled to myself and finished the laundry without touching her clothes.
Playing by the Rules
Later that evening, I was comfortably planted in my gaming chair, headphones on, cat curled up in my lap. The perfect Saturday.
That’s when I heard the footsteps.
Emily appeared in the doorway, brows drawn together.
“Hey, did you do the laundry?”
I swiveled my chair slightly. “Yep. All done.”
She glanced toward the laundry basket, then back at me. “Where are my work clothes?”
I bit back a grin.
“Oh,” I said, swiveling slowly to face her fully. “If it’s not in the basket, it doesn’t get washed.”
The room went still for a second.
Emily blinked at me, caught between surprise and amusement. Then she let out a short laugh.
“Wow. Really?”
I shrugged, doing my best to keep a straight face. “Hey, the rule’s the rule.”
She stared at me for a long moment, then shook her head with a soft chuckle. “Alright. Fine. You got me.”
Victory. Sweet, harmless victory.
Or… so I thought.
Because the way she smiled as she walked off? That wasn’t defeat.
That was the look of someone already planning their next move.
The Hunt for the Basket
The next laundry day, I went to toss my clothes in the basket like usual—but it wasn’t there.
Huh. Weird.
I checked the bathroom. Not there.
Bedroom? Nope.
Maybe Emily had moved it to the laundry room? I checked. Nothing.
“Hey, Em,” I called. “Where’s the laundry basket?”
Without looking up from her book, she answered sweetly, “Where it always is.”
Except it wasn’t.
I finally found it tucked behind the guest room door—out of sight, out of reach.
At first, I laughed it off. Emily was having a little fun. No big deal.
Clean Break
I’d love to say I admitted defeat right then and there.
But no. Every laundry day became a game of hide-and-seek.
I spent the next week obsessively hunting for that basket, determined to stay one step ahead. I checked closets, behind doors, even under the bed.
I started carrying my dirty clothes around the house like a lunatic, ready to drop them in the second I found it.
But Emily was always a step ahead.
Once, I caught her casually sliding the basket behind the couch as I walked in. She just smiled and said, “Laundry day tomorrow.”
I cracked.
By the end of the month, I’d learned my lesson. Now, the second I take something off, it goes straight into the basket—wherever it is.
Emily? She hasn’t moved it in weeks. Doesn’t need to.
Balance has been restored.
The house is peaceful again. Clothes are washed, folded, and exactly where they should be.
And me? I’ve retired from laundry games.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this:
The rule is the rule.