It reminded me how quickly people can build certainty from incomplete information.
And how much damage I might have caused if I had acted on that certainty immediately.
I was grateful I hadn’t called Marcus from the basement.
Frank would have approved of that.
Several months later, Lily asked why the laundry bags didn’t come to Grandma’s anymore.
“Your parents hired a service.”
“Why?”
“Because I told them I needed them to.”
She thought about that.
“Did you have to ask a lot?”
“More than once.”
“Was it awkward?”
“For a little while.”
“But now everything is okay?”
“Better than okay.”
Lily considered this carefully.
“So you just had to keep saying it.”
“Yes.”
“And they had to listen.”
“Exactly.”
She seemed satisfied and returned to her book.
I sat at the table thinking about how simple the truth sounded when an eight-year-old said it.
You say the thing that needs to be said.
If necessary, you say it again.
You find a way that works.
You give people the opportunity to hear you.
And then, if everyone is willing to make a few changes, you sit down together on Sunday and have dinner.
The washing machine on Elm Creek Road still works.
Plain white.
Top-loading.
No personality whatsoever.
It washes exactly what I choose to put inside it.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
And that is exactly how it should be.
