My father always washed his socks himself, taking great pride in the task. He considered socks to be a matter of personal dignity, and it would have mortified him to ask my mother to handle them. He was meticulous: his socks and undergarments were always fresh and in perfect order.
Things were different in my own household. My husband, William, never dreamed of washing his own socks. Whats the point? hed say dismissively. Anyone can toss them in the washer and hang them in the airing cupboard. No need for fuss.
Thats just how we lived. But one day, I missed the moment he ran out of clean socks. The tension in the air cracked as he made it quite clear: somehow, this was my fault.
These days, no one bothers darning socks anymore; its easier just to buy new ones. Any socks with gaping holes I spot in the laundry go straight in the bin with yesterdays newspaper. So it turns out, he doesnt have many pairs without threads poking out.
If you put your socks in the laundry basket, Id wash them, I shot back, taking a breath. I shouldnt have to wander round the house, hunting for stray dirty clothes. If its dirty, it belongs in the basket!
He glared, voice steely. Its your job to make sure I have clean, ironed clothes.
Suddenly, the responsibility for his socks weighed heavily on me, as if the roles had been decided long ago in some old English play, but Id never been handed the script before.
