Turn On the Girl

“Hey, you ever think, Tasha, that when things get complicated, the answer might be simpler than we make it? Like, sometimes we women overcomplicate things because admitting we need help feels like weakness.”

“Simple solutions? Yeah, right,” Tasha sighed. “Ask my ex-husband for help? Hed either brush me off or give me a lecture about how Im not handling things.”

“Thats exactly what I meanasking. But not the way you usually do, like youre assigning him a task. Were so used to being strong and independent that asking feels humiliating. But heres the thingmen actually *need* that sometimes.”

Tasha scoffed. Mark needed her to ask for help? Please. Valerie had no idea. If he needed anything, it was to be left alone. He brought in the moneythat was his one and only job, as far as he was concerned.

***

Three years after the divorce, Tasha saw things differently. The cracks had been there from the starttheyd just ignored them.

They met at a friends partyTasha, the life of the room, full of energy, and Mark, tall, charming, fresh off a promotion. He saw her as the perfect partnerbeautiful, smart. She saw him as her rock. Their wedding was picture-perfect, the kind people call a “dream come true.”

But dreams fade into routine, and they never learned how to fight properly.

Tasha grew up in a home where love was measured in chores. Her mum, single after her dad left, did everythingworked, raised her, kept the house running. Her mantra? “Rely on no one. Men come and go, but your independence is your fortress.” So Tasha built hers earlycooked, fixed sockets, chose her uni alone. Deep down, though, she wanted someone to lean on. She dreamed of a partnership where she could be soft without fear. What she wanted from marriage was simple yet impossible: safety. Not financialshe could earnbut emotional. A chance to finally take off the armour.

Mark? Classic patriarchal upbringing. Dad was the breadwinner, his word law. Mum ran the homecleaning, emotions, parenting. Problems were solved one way: Mum voiced them, Dad threw money or connections at it. No discussions, no teamwork. Mark learned one model: men provide, everything else? Not his job. In marriage, he wanted comfortclean house, good food, a pretty wife waiting, problems handled quietly.

They never talked about it. From day one, Mark saw Tasha as strong, self-sufficientsomeone who wouldnt bother him with “trivial” things. She saw him as her rock. They spoke different languages without knowing it. They planned honeymoons, baby names, home decor. But they never asked, “How will we handle problems?” or “How do we split responsibilities?”

Nobody wanted to ruin the romance. Tasha feared seeming weak or demanding by admitting she wanted partnership. Mark assumed things would work like his parentsno discussion needed. They sailed toward each other, certain they saw the same shore. But they were on entirely different continents.

When their son, Jamie, was born, Tasha did it allremote work, night feeds, doctor visits, playgroups. Mark existed in parallel, buried in work, “resting” on the sofa at home. His involvement? “Whats for dinner?” and the occasional game with Jamie*if* he was clean and cheerful.

At nine months, Jamie spiked a fever of 39°C. Tasha, panicked, shook Mark awake at 3 AM. “Mark, help meI dont know what to do! Should we call an ambulance?” Eyes still closed, he grunted, “Youre the mum. Sort it. Ive got negotiations tomorrow.” That night stayed with herrocking Jamie alone, crying from helplessness.

Then came the little things. The universal stuff. Mark always put himself first; Tasha kept a mental ledger of slights. Once, he skipped Jamies nursery recital. Hed learned his first poemthree years old, so proud. Tasha had asked Mark a week in advance. “Of course, love,” hed said. That morning, as she tied Jamies little bow tie, her phone rang. “Tash, sorryclient emergency. You know how it is. Film it, Ill watch later.” “Later” never came. To Mark, it was work. To Tasha, another nail in the coffin.

Then winter. Tasha caught the flu, fever at 38°C, begged Mark to grab basicsmilk, bread, medicine. He agreed. Came home at 9 PM with a bagexpensive whisky and chocolates for his secretarys birthday. “Forgot the food. Youll manage.” That night, staring at the whisky, shivering, she knewshe wasnt just tired. She was dying inside.

She left abruptly. Cold calm over years of exhaustion. While Mark was away, she packed up and left. One text: “Done. Tired of doing it all alone. Jamie and I are moving out.”

For Mark, it was a shock. He didnt get it. He provided! What else did she want? His confusion and hurt matched her fatigue.

***

First, she stayed with her mum. Then a second job, a tiny flat. Gym to sweat out the stress. Life inched forward. But one problem lingeredmoney. Raising a kid, even with child support, was expensive.

Over coffee with a colleague, Tasha vented again. “Always alone, always skint, everything with Jamies on me…” Her colleagueolder, wisercut in.

“Tasha, youre strong. But even athletes need spotters. Stop carrying it all. The simplest solution? Delegate. Ever heard of playing the girl card?”

Sometimes, you dont demandyou ask in a way that makes them *want* to help.

“Seriously? Mark needs me to whine and act helpless?”

“Not whine. Show you *cant* do it alone. That girly vulnerability? Its not weakness. Its what men needmakes them feel strong, needed, *masculine*. And that? That builds their confidence. Youre letting him be the hero. Even in small ways.”

“Pretty words. I dont buy it,” Tasha said.

“Same as when we want compliments,” her colleague pressed. “Some men, like Mark, call it manipulation. But we *love* them, right? They make us feel pretty, feminine. Men? They melt when we let them feel capable. Not manipulationlove. Try it. Whys Jamie just *your* responsibility? Marks his father.”

Tasha thought. Maybe there *was* something there.

***

The idea clicked when Jamie needed speech therapy before school. Tasha messaged Markno emotion, just facts.

*”Hi Mark. Nursery screeningJamie struggles with sh and r sounds. Therapist says without help, hell fall behind in reading/writing. What do we do?”*

Mark hesitated*”Dunno… maybe wait? Its pricey…”*

Then, her genius move. She waited. Let him sit with it. Hours later:

*”Looked into options. Speech Masters charges £50/session, 2x weekly. Little Talkers is £40 but has a waitlist. Found a private therapist near us£45, has openings.”*

She pictured him reading it. The problem went from scary-abstract to solvable. Numbers, addresses, a plan. No legwork for himjust a yes.

Then, the key line: *”Mark, Im really struggling with this alone. Can we split it? Ill take him, but I cant afford it solo.”*

Reply instantly: *”Okay. Send the therapists details. Ill cover it. Let me know if you need anything.”*

No fight. No guilt.

Tasha grinned. She was *proud*. Had she demanded *”Pay for speech therapy, heres the cost”*, hed have resisted. Now? Shed handed him the problem, let him feel its weight, then offered a lifelineone he *wanted* to grab.

“Playing the girl card is *powerful*,” she realised. “State the problem, then shut up. Let *him* feel the pressure. Then your solution isnt naggingits salvation.”

She tested it again when her laptop diedvital for Jamies therapy. Old Tasha wouldve maxed a credit card or stressed for days finding a repair.

New Tasha? Sent Mark a photo of the black screen: *”Mark, disasterlaptops dead. Jamie cant do therapy without it. Panicking. Any advice?”*

Key words*”panicking,” “advice.”*

No irritation this time. Mark felt like the expert. *”Dont worry. Send the model, Ill check.”* An hour later: *”Found a repair shop. Ill pick it up tonight, drop it off.”*

Half-solved without her lifting a finger. *”Thank you SO much.