“I decided to switch to tea,” I answered.
She opened her mouth to argue, but caught herself, storming off to the pantry.
10 minutes later, she marched into the living room holding a plastic laundry basket.
“My silk blouse isn’t clean,” Sarah complained, dropping the basket onto the rug. “I left it in the hamper on Sunday.”
I closed my book slowly.
“I did my laundry yesterday.”
“Right? But you didn’t do ours.”
“I’m sure you and David can figure out the washing machine. Sarah, the manual is in the top drawer.”
She stared at me, her eyes narrowing.
“Is this because of what David said? Are you seriously throwing a tantrum?”
I didn’t raise my voice. I simply stood up, picked up my teacup, and looked her up and down.
“A tantrum is what a child throws when they don’t get their way. I am simply a woman managing her own chores. You are 30 years old. Wash your own blouse.”
