But helping someone is different from being assigned a job without anyone bothering to tell you.
I’d spend half my Saturday moving loads from the washer to the dryer while everyone else talked upstairs, played with the kids, or sat outside when the weather was nice.
By late afternoon, I’d be folding tiny shirts, socks, jeans, towels, pajamas, and whatever else Vanessa had stuffed into those bags.
Not once did she offer to help.
Eventually, she even stopped thanking me.
One Sunday, after they’d stayed overnight following a family dinner, I finally said something.
We were all sitting at the kitchen table. Vanessa was drinking coffee while I cleared breakfast plates.
“Vanessa, I’m 68. I’m happy to help sometimes, but I’m not your laundromat.”
She laughed.
“You’re home all day anyway.”
Josh stared at his plate.
That hurt almost as much.
I wasn’t expecting him to start an argument with his wife, but I expected something. A look. A word. Some acknowledgment that what she’d said was rude.
Instead, he became extremely interested in a piece of toast.
I carried the plates to the sink and said nothing else.
I knew then that another complaint wasn’t going to change anything.
So the next weekend, when Vanessa arrived with four bags, I didn’t complain.
