“That’s why we have the floor cloth.”
“Then use it, dear.”
She returned to her magazine.
I stood there holding the sponge, wondering how she’d turned my request into an offer to clean up after her.
“Then use it, dear.”
That evening, I brought it up while Timothy was putting away dinner.
“Mom, Heather’s right,” he said. “Please stop using the dish sponge on the floor.”
Brenda sighed.
“I’ve cleaned kitchens longer than either of you has been alive.”
“Then using a separate cloth shouldn’t be difficult.”
“Mom, Heather’s right.”
She looked offended.
“Fine. I’ll use your special cloth.”
Timothy kissed my cheek as she walked away.
“See? Problem solved.”
She looked offended.
I wanted to believe him.
After replacing another ruined sponge, I came home the following week and caught Brenda wiping the floor with yet another one.
I’d kept four discarded sponges in separate bags in the utility closet.
I’d meant to take them to the outside trash, but Henry’s school project and work had kept me busy.
I wanted to believe him.
After everyone went to bed, I brought the sealed bags into the kitchen.
I wrote USED ON FLOOR on each one.
Beside them, I placed a new dish sponge and a clean blue cloth.
Then I wrote Brenda a note.
I wrote USED ON FLOOR on each one.
“Since you’ve said these sponges are fine for washing dishes after they’ve been used on the floor, I’ve saved them for you. Please choose whichever one you’d feel comfortable using on your own plate.”
I knew she’d be furious.
I also knew she wouldn’t take another polite request seriously.
I left everything on the counter and went upstairs.
I knew she’d be furious.
The following morning, Brenda’s scream woke the household.
She held my note between two fingers.
“You saved dirty sponges just to embarrass me?”
“They were already bagged for disposal.”
Brenda’s scream woke the household.
“Would you wash your breakfast plate with one?”
“Of course not! They’ve been sitting around!”
“But you keep putting floor sponges back beside our dishes.”
“That’s different. I rinse them!”
“Of course not!”
Brenda turned to Timothy.
“You’re not going to let her humiliate me, are you?”
Timothy looked uncomfortable.
“Heather, couldn’t you have handled this another way?”
“I’ve tried talking to her. You were there.”
Brenda turned to Timothy.
Brenda folded her arms.
“Timothy told me I shouldn’t have to ask your permission for every little thing.”
I turned toward him.
“Did you?”
Timothy shifted his weight.
“Did you?”
“I told Mom she should feel comfortable here.”
Brenda frowned.
“That’s not all you said.”
“Mom, please.”
I looked at him.
“Mom, please.”
“What else did you say?”
He glanced toward the stairs.
“Mom, this isn’t what we talked about.”
I set down my coffee.
“What did you two talk about?”
“What else did you say?”
Timothy looked at me.
“Can we talk about this privately?”
Before I could answer, Henry appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes.
“Why’s everyone yelling?”
Henry appeared in the doorway.
“Grandma and I disagree about something in the kitchen,” I said. “That’s all, hon.”
“Are we still making pancakes, Mom?”
“Of course. Go wash your hands.”
He hurried toward the bathroom.
“Go wash your hands.”
I turned back to Timothy.
“We’re finishing this conversation later.”
After breakfast, I threw away the sealed sponges.
