AFTER THE NEW YEAR’S CELEBRATION

Emma, where are you off to? her husband asked, surprised to see her heading for the bedroom.

To the little bed, what else? she replied, weary.

And the dishes? Max snapped.

All the guests had already drifted home. The party had been loud and merry. The only person left in the house was his mother, but she too had slipped into bed. Emma packed the leftovers into containers, shoved the plates into the sink and decided that was enough. Max didnt agree.

Ill wash them tomorrow! Or do it yourself if you prefer!

Love, my mum is staying over. I cant even imagine her face when she sees this mess in the morning!

Oh, Max, its just dishes. The real triumph was that the celebration went off without a hitch. We danced, we laughed. Im exhausted please dont drive a wedge into my head. Ill tackle the washing tomorrow; Ive got no strength left tonight.

Youve overexerted yourself, havent you?

Picture this: while you were out enjoying yourself, I managed to clear the whole flat, prepare food for an entire platoon, and even decorate the tree. Thank heavens the girl helped. Youd promised to get home early and lend a hand.

I couldnt. My car broke down. I explained that!

Im telling you now, I need sleep! If you dont like the sink full of plates, you know where the sponge and detergent are. Get on with it! Im going to bed!

Emma stopped arguing. She trudged to the bedroom, utterly spent, yearning for the pillow and the darkness.

Max lingered on his phone, never moving to wash the dishes. He, too, felt the weight of fatigue, but fell asleep with a sour mood. He worried that tomorrow his mother would berate him for his wifes mistakes, yet the thought of scrubbing never appealed.

The first of January dawned late for everyone; after a night that started around midnight, they all rose around four. Mrs. Thompson had partied so hard the night before that she overslept the most.

Emma was the first adult to stir, but instead of reaching for a cloth she brewed a mug of coffee and opened an online story. She always began her mornings this way and wasnt about to deny herself that pleasure, especially on the first day of the year. The rich aroma drifted through the kitchen, rousing Max.

Morning! he called, eyes narrowed at the sink. Still not done with the dishes?

Same as you! Good morning, sunshine! Lets keep the day bright. If you want coffee, help yourself; Ive made a pot for two in the kettle.

He poured a cup, sat at the table, and remembered the cake hed never tasted the night before. He sliced a piece for himself.

Want a bite? he offered.

No, thank you. Breakfast carbs are a sin, and I ate enough yesterday. Ill be on a drybread regime for the next two days. And enjoy, my slender cypress! she teased, gesturing at the modest bulge peeking from his tshirt.

Ha! Ill burn it off at the gym later!

Right, right! Eat if you like; its your business.

Coffee in hand, Max savoured the cake, and his mood brightened.

Has Sophie gotten up yet? he asked about their daughter.

She got up, had her cereal with milk, then went back to bed, I think. I havent seen her, but I heard her.

The kitchen door opened almost silently as Mrs. Thompson slipped in. Max tensed, bracing for a quarrel, but his mother surprised him.

Oh, dear, Ive always dreamed of seeing a scene like this! she said with a smile.

What do you mean? Max was puzzled.

If you only knew how dreadful it is to be forced to wash dishes after New Years or any celebration. Its pure torture! Im relieved youre not like your father.

What are you getting at? I thought it would drive you mad!

Nonsense! It was actually your father who drove me nuts. He always insisted the dishes be done the night before, precisely that I should do them. Weve had several serious rows over it. I eventually gave in, washing them quietly at night while hating him. Ive often yielded to him on household matters

Maxs father had died five years earlier from a heart attack. His mother had long since moved past those events, but now she was spouting strange recollections. Max had always believed she was the households cleanliness czar, yet her words suggested otherwise.

Mum, are you serious?

Of course! Your father was a stickler for spotless things. It infuriated me, but he had enough good qualities that I had to accept it. Sometimes his obsession meant the house was kept almost surgically clean. I sometimes think thats why he died so younghe put too much value on empty things, like unwashed dishes after a party.

Thats a bit much, Mum!

Emma stayed lost in her story, barely hearing the exchange.

No, son, I truly believe that. My brother George worried excessively about trivialities. Its a pity. I tried to explain it to him, but thats how he was raised. Remember your grandmother? She was obsessed with cleanliness, pushing the children to be perfect. Perhaps thats why he turned out the way he did. I think so! she said, then turned to her daughterinlaw. Emma, youre brilliant! You dont fall for provocation!

What? Emma blinked, pulling her eyes from the phone when she heard her name.

Well done, I always hoped youd leave the dishes for the morning! Ive always dreamed of that. And you, Max, well done for not picking a fight over petty things!

Exactly, no fighting! Emma smiled, recalling their argument from the night before, but she didnt want to scold him in front of his mother.

Thats my view! Mrs. Thompson said, brewing herself a cup of tea. The wife does all the holiday prep, the husband helps a bit with the cleaning, and not always. So, for fairnesss sake, you should leave him the very worst part!

The worst part? Max guessed.

The sinks full of dishes! she snorted, pointing at the basin. Come on, Emma, lets watch some telly and look at yesterdays photos. We took plenty. Max, finish your coffee; you can tackle the washing later!

Im all for it! Max, you have such a thoughtful and fair mother! Im thrilled! Emma said, flashing a disarming grin as she rose, coffee already cooling in her hand.

They left the kitchen together, leaving Max alone. He stared at the mountain of plates, winced, and muttered to himself as he turned the tap on.

Why did I even start this conversation? he scolded himself.

Had his wife been there, he might have found an excuse, but he knew he could not argue with his mother. Thus a new family tradition was born: the wife adored it, the husband loathed it.

And thats life sometimes its anything but fair.