I’ve read many times about the concept of treating relationships as a series of transactions. For a long time, I struggled to fully understand what that meant. But lately, through my experiences with my husband, I feel I’ve been able to articulate it better—especially by telling stories.
Take yesterday, for example. My husband picked the kids up from kindergarten. I heard him at the door, not letting our daughter, Eva, inside the living room until she picked up her socks and carried them to the laundry basket in the bathroom. They were locked in a tug-of-war: my tired, hungry daughter refusing, and my husband standing firm, blocking her way.
Now, I have no problem with teaching Eva to tidy up after herself. I fully believe she’s capable of putting her clothes where they belong instead of leaving them lying around. But my approach would have been very different.
Instead of springing the requirement on her in the heat of the moment, I would set her up for success. I’d make the rule clear in advance: “Eva, from now on, when we come home, we’re going to put our clothes where they belong.” I’d gently remind her before entering the house and perhaps place a designated basket by the door to make the process more manageable. I’d also try to make it fun—turn it into a game, like racing to see who can put their things away the fastest or pretending the basket is a target to aim for. Little things to ease the task and keep it light.
What I saw yesterday wasn’t teaching—it was a power struggle. And it set everyone up for failure. How long can you realistically stand at the door, refusing to let a hungry, tired child into the house? And what does that accomplish? To me, it felt punitive, as if the real lesson was, Do what I say or face the consequences. It wasn’t about teaching her responsibility; it felt like it was about his ego, his need for control.
I watched for a while and then intervened. “Eva is hungry. Let’s eat, and we’ll deal with this later.” My husband immediately took offense, stormed off to the bedroom, and left me to manage the aftermath, complaining on his way out: “You never stand by me.”
The truth is, I want to stand by him. Nothing would make me happier than showing a united front as parents. It’s important for the kids to see us on the same page. But I can’t stand by him in situations like this, where the approach feels counterproductive and unfair.
Before leaving the room, he added: “See, I stood by you yesterday when you were forcing her to eat the rice, but after this today, I will never stand by you again.” And there it was—the transactional mindset in action. I did this for you, so you must do this for me.
This way of thinking extends beyond parenting moments. Just this morning, I saw it again. We were in a rush to leave the house, and I needed a bag to carry everything while holding Eva, who’s in a jealous phase and insists on being carried like her little brother. I quickly found a bag, but it had hats and gloves inside, so I dumped them onto the floor, knowing I’d pick them up later when I got home.
I knew this would upset my husband—he was standing right there, watching—but I had priorities. My focus was on leaving the house as quickly as possible, and I planned to deal with the mess later. To me, it was a practical solution given the circumstances, but I knew he wouldn’t see it that way.
When I returned, the hats and gloves were still scattered on the floor. Of course they were. I knew they would be. In a “normal” household, I imagine a partner might feel empathy and pick them up, understanding the rush I was in. But in my house, the rule is clear: You made the mess; you clean it up.
When I mentioned it to my husband, his response was, “You never need to pick up after me, so I won’t do it for you either.”
That’s the crux of the problem. He doesn’t understand that “picking up” goes beyond literal messes. It’s about the small acts of care we do for each other—grabbing milk on the way home so he has some for his coffee, tidying something he left behind, or simply being thoughtful in ways that make each other’s lives easier.
Relationships aren’t about keeping score. They’re about teamwork, about stepping in for each other when one is struggling or overwhelmed. They’re about building a life together where both people feel supported, not endlessly evaluated on a transactional scale.
When everything is treated as a transaction—I did this, so you must do that—it strips away the heart of a relationship. It’s exhausting and demoralizing. I don’t want a relationship where I feel like a business partner balancing the books. I want a family. I want a team.
I believe relationships thrive not on transactions but on generosity, understanding, and shared effort. Small acts of kindness, done without expecting something in return, are what make love flourish. But in my household, I often feel like I’m fighting against a system that values fairness over connection, rules over empathy, and scorekeeping over care.
Today, I think: this is what it means to live in a transactional relationship.
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