Six
AS THE LAST SMALL PARISHIONER runs out the basement door, followed by a frazzled but relieved-looking mom, I turn to Helen and ask, “Shall we follow the Archbishop’s advice and get some rest?”
“Tom,” she says, “I can’t leave yet. There is all the cleaning up to do.”
“There are plenty of people in the kitchen,” I say. “Just let them do it.”
“Look, if I’m going to be your wife in a few months, I should start pulling my own weight around here. And I’m going to start by taking this stack of dirty dishes into the kitchen.” She then grabs some dirty plates off a table as I stand there watching, a little bewildered and immensely proud.
Almost immediately after she disappears into the kitchen, I hear a multitude of shooing noises and walk over to find out what’s going on.
The sight makes
