We had just finished painting the living room, and my husband was removing the painter’s tape from the walls.
“I’ll have to get the paint out and touch up this area,” he said.
I took a look at the area he was referring to and saw that a sizable section of paint had come off with the tape.
“Was that my fault?” I asked. ” Did I mess up when I put the tape on it?”
“No, it’s not your fault,” my husband replied. “It’s your guilt.”
“My guilt? What do you mean?”
“You always think everything is your fault.” My husband chuckled. “You’ve always been like that.”
“Guess that’s because of my father,” I said. “Nothing was ever his fault, so I figured it must be my fault.”
“That was the engineer in him,” my husband said. “He’d be laughing right now if he were still alive.”
“And he never apologized,” I added. “My mother sure knew that side of him.”
We both were quiet for a moment, remembering my parents, whom we loved dearly.
My husband broke the silence. “Your mother sure got a lot of nice clothes out of it, though.”