Last week, I had a new dishwasher delivered. I’d already stretched my budget for it—sold on the promise that it was reliable, a “top brand,” and backed by great after-sales service. It felt like a responsible, well-thought-out decision.

But within minutes of turning it on, water was pouring across my kitchen floor. Not a small leak. Towels-on-the-floor, spreading-fast kind of water. It was coming through the door, from underneath—everywhere.

I saw red.

I did what I shouldn’t have done. I called the supplier straight away. While I was driving my 10-year-old to school. The conversation went about as well as you’d expect. I was abrupt, impatient, and rude. I could hear it even as I was doing it, but I didn’t stop.

It didn’t get me a better outcome. I still have to wait for someone to come out and “assess” it. I’m still handwashing dishes in the meantime. So, nothing gained.

But later, something stuck with me.

It wasn’t the inconvenience, or even the money. It was the fact that my daughter had been sitting right next to me while I spoke like that.

I don’t want her growing up thinking that frustration gives you a free pass to treat people poorly—especially when they’re not in front of you, and there are no real consequences. That afternoon, I told her I wanted to talk. She already knew what it was about.

I told her my behaviour wasn’t okay. That being angry doesn’t justify speaking to someone like that. That I hadn’t handled it well, and it hadn’t even helped. And I apologised.

I’d like to think I’ll handle it better next time. Pause. Breathe. Maybe not make the call from the car, mid-frustration.

But more than that, I want her to see that getting it wrong isn’t the end of the story.

Owning it matters too.