Elena paused, her hands momentarily still as she adjusted the clothespins. Her usual bright smile flickered for just a second before she replied, “Oh, it’s just something I’m used to, Mama. Fresh sheets feel nice, don’t they?”
Her response was polite but vague, leaving a nagging feeling in the back of my mind. I couldn’t shake off the curiosity gnawing at me. Why was she so insistent on this peculiar routine?
Days passed, and the routine didn’t change. Sheets were washed, hung, and folded methodically like clockwork. It wasn’t just the frequency that was odd, but the precision with which she did it, as if it was an essential ritual.
