My name is Eileen. I am 68 years old, retired and have one washing machine and one dryer in the basement of the house where I raised my son, Josh.
At first, I didn’t mind helping my daughter-in-law, Vanessa, with clothes.
“Would you mind putting this in your clothes?” he asked me on a Saturday.
“It’s okay.
It was really fine… at first.
But one basket became two. Soon, every Saturday, Vanessa and Josh arrived with their children and three huge bags of dirty clothes. They left them next to my washing machine and waited for it to be washed, dry, folded and ready when they left.
I was telling myself that I was helping. The children were young and I remembered what it was like to have a house full of laundry.
But helping is different from being assigned a job.
He spent most of Saturday moving loads from the washing machine to the dryer while everyone else was talking upstairs, playing with the children, or sitting outside. Eventually, Vanessa stopped thanking me.
One Sunday, I finally said:
“Vanessa, I’m 68. I’m happy to help from time to time, but I’m not a laundry room.
She’s laughing.
“You’re home all day anyway.
Josh stared at his plate.
That hurt almost as much as her comment.
I knew another complaint wasn’t gonna change anything.
The next weekend, Vanessa arrived with four bags.
“It’s been an intense week,” he said.
I smiled.
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