If I had things my way, that would not have happened to the paper towels.
Her way, and we wouldn’t be in the kitchen at all. We would be dragging a picnic basket up and down the hallway.
But out of our compromises comes dinner.
(Comes combed hair, comes folded laundry, comes getting ourselves out of the house in some version of order.)
There is no one more deserving of my complete attention and no one less willing to part with even a little fraction of it.
And really, why should she be?