A torn sock bumped against my leg while my newborn slept against my chest. Billy had brought his mending to my hospital bed because I was “doing nothing.” Then his mother walked in, asked him to repeat himself, and reached into her handbag. Whatever she found made him whisper, “Mom, don’t you dare.”
A rolled-up sock bumped against my leg.
I looked down.
There were more socks inside the grocery bag Billy had dropped onto my hospital bed. Underneath them lay two work shirts and my sewing kit.
A rolled-up sock bumped against my leg.
I’d asked him to bring my phone charger.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Stuff that’s been piling up.”
He pulled out a sock and held its heel toward me.
“See? These are still good. They just need fixing.”
He pulled out a sock.
I stared at him.
“Billy, I gave birth yesterday.”
“And?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “You’re lying here anyway doing nothing. Sew these.”
Our daughter was asleep against my chest.
I’d spent eighteen hours in labor, needed stitches afterward, and hadn’t slept for more than twenty minutes at a time since.
“You’re lying here anyway doing nothing. Sew these.”
Even sitting upright hurt.
“I’m not sewing your socks.”
“I’m not asking you to scrub the bathroom,” Billy said, laughing. “You can sew sitting down.”
I looked at the little needle case resting beside my daughter’s burp cloth.
“You can sew sitting down.”
For years, I’d done the laundry, packed his lunches, remembered his mother’s birthday, and made sure his work shirts were clean.
Whenever I asked him to help, he promised he would.
Usually, I ended up doing it myself.