didn’t want you to think I disliked the help.”
“I didn’t.”
She dried her hands slowly.
“I grew up being the person who handled things,” she said. “It’s hard to know when being useful stops helping.”
I looked at her.
There it was again: a resemblance beneath two different habits.
“I may know something about that.”
She smiled, but there was sadness at its edges.
“Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Yes.”
The answer surprised me with its speed.
She looked down at the towel, then back at me.
