Mother-in-Law’s Grumbles
Seated on our sofa, shelling fava beans, she launched into habitual complaints. "Supermarket detergent prices soaring! Crooked merchants!" she ranted. "Old soapberry cleansers—gone! Detergents, capsules—all flashy rubbish! Overpriced filth!" Beans clattered into the bowl. "Especially next-to-skin wear," she emphasized, eyeing me. "Machines churn dirt back in! Chemical stench! Only hand-scrubbing! Boiling water! Sun drying! That’s safe—no itching!" Her words struck like drumbeats. Hand-scrubbing? Boiling water? Exactly what David hinted at on the balcony.
"Mother’s Sensitivity"
After she left, David tidied bean pods, explaining casually: "Mom’s skin is delicate—itchy easily. Machine-washed feels residue-laden, uncomfortable." Matter-of-factly spoken. "So her intimate items... must be hand-washed?" I pressed, broom pausing. "Yes," he nodded, dumping pods without meeting my gaze. "Old habits. Machines never satisfy her." His justification chilled me deeper. Truly?
Drawer Revisited
Was that pink drawer item... just one of many he laundered? Filial piety gone awry? Seasons shifted. Nearly two months since the discovery. Life blurred. Sorting David’s drawer for lighter socks, my hand brushed that familiar, slippery texture again! Not pink—this time... nude? Simpler, lace-less. Ice shot through my veins. Already?
NEXT >>
Seated on our sofa, shelling fava beans, she launched into habitual complaints. "Supermarket detergent prices soaring! Crooked merchants!" she ranted. "Old soapberry cleansers—gone! Detergents, capsules—all flashy rubbish! Overpriced filth!" Beans clattered into the bowl. "Especially next-to-skin wear," she emphasized, eyeing me. "Machines churn dirt back in! Chemical stench! Only hand-scrubbing! Boiling water! Sun drying! That’s safe—no itching!" Her words struck like drumbeats. Hand-scrubbing? Boiling water? Exactly what David hinted at on the balcony.
"Mother’s Sensitivity"
After she left, David tidied bean pods, explaining casually: "Mom’s skin is delicate—itchy easily. Machine-washed feels residue-laden, uncomfortable." Matter-of-factly spoken. "So her intimate items... must be hand-washed?" I pressed, broom pausing. "Yes," he nodded, dumping pods without meeting my gaze. "Old habits. Machines never satisfy her." His justification chilled me deeper. Truly?
Drawer Revisited
Was that pink drawer item... just one of many he laundered? Filial piety gone awry? Seasons shifted. Nearly two months since the discovery. Life blurred. Sorting David’s drawer for lighter socks, my hand brushed that familiar, slippery texture again! Not pink—this time... nude? Simpler, lace-less. Ice shot through my veins. Already?
NEXT >>
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