Family, in Diane’s world, meant she could open my fridge without asking, criticize the groceries I bought, move things around in my kitchen, and somehow leave every room dirtier than she found it.
If she made tea, there would be a wet ring on the counter, sugar spilled by the jar, and two used spoons in the sink for no reason at all.
If she made a sandwich, bread crumbs would appear in places that made no sense, like the hallway table.
If she came in on a rainy day, she would walk straight across my clean floors in muddy shoes, glance down at the footprints, and keep going like she was admiring her own work.
The worst part was that if I ever asked her, calmly, politely, like a civilized adult, to please clean up after herself, she would laugh.
Actually laugh.
Then she would toss her head and say the same sentence she had been saying for years.
« Well, this house has a woman to clean it, doesn’t it? »
The first few times, I was too stunned to answer.
After that, I started answering.
