Broken needle

Erin snapped the needle on her old Singer sewing machine. She took it to the store to find a replacement.

"You’re supposed to replace these every eight hours of use," explained the clerk as she examined the old needle. "How long did you use this one?"

"Oh," said Erin, "about twelve years."


Thursday morning.

I need a bath. I didn't take one last night. I'm going to do something I wouldn't  normally do and have a morning bath.

Everyone else in the house is sleeping, except for Henry and Alice. They play quietly in the living room.

"Guys," I say. "You okay in here? I'm going to take a quick bath."

"Take a bath?" says Henry. He cocks an eyebrow. "What day is it?"

That explains a lot, actually

Suppertime. Erin is telling a story.

Alice is enraptured. Her eyes are locked onto her mother's face. She smiles. Her eyes sparkle.

Erin finishes her story. Alice's eyes open just a bit wider so she can say something important.

"Sometimes, when you're talking and I'm not listening, I can make it so I can't even hear your voice."