by late afternoon, i would be folding small shirts, socks, trousers, towels, sleepwear, and whatever else vanessa had packed into those sacks.
not a single time did she volunteer to pitch in.
in time, she stopped expressing gratitude.
one sunday, following an overnight stay after a family meal, i finally spoke up.
we were gathered around the kitchen table. vanessa sipped her coffee as i cleared away the morning dishes.
« vanessa, i’m 68 years old. i don’t mind lending a hand occasionally, but i am not your personal laundry service. »
She laughed.
« You’re home all day anyway. »
Josh stared at his plate.
That hurt almost as much.
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