Four.
I watched Josh haul two through the kitchen while Vanessa dragged the others toward the basement door.
“Big week,” she said lightly.
I smiled.
“Leave them downstairs.”
She looked almost disappointed. Apparently, she’d prepared herself for another speech.
Instead, I poured lemonade for the kids and went outside with everyone else.
That afternoon, while everyone was eating in the backyard, I carried every bag into the laundry room.
But I didn’t turn on the washer.
Instead, I did something I’d been considering all week.
I emptied every bag onto the floor and sorted everything into separate piles.
Vanessa’s clothes.
Josh’s.
The kids’.
Then I noticed something strange.
Almost half of Vanessa’s pile wasn’t hers.
There were men’s dress shirts I’d never seen Josh wear, a pair of expensive trousers far too small for him, and three white button-down shirts with a dry-cleaner’s tag still attached.
I stood there holding one of the shirts.
My first thought was unpleasant.
My second was that it was none of my business.
I almost called Josh.
Then I stopped.
This wasn’t why I’d brought the bags downstairs.
I wasn’t going to accuse my daughter-in-law of something based on a shirt.
But I also wasn’t going to wash a mysterious man’s clothes in my basement.
