When my son, Gabriel, married Eliza, I thought my heart could finally rest. She was the sort of woman every mother hopes her child will find, soft-spoken yet steady, thoughtful in every small gesture. They met while studying architecture in Chicago and seemed inseparable from the start. When he first brought her home to Vermont, the whole neighborhood adored her. People would say, “Your son has found a treasure, Mrs. Moorefield.” And I believed it.
After the wedding, I offered them the cottage behind my house. It was a quiet space surrounded by apple trees, close enough for Sunday dinners but far enough to give them privacy. They settled in quickly, filling the small rooms with laughter and plans for the future. Everything seemed perfect except for one habit I could never understand.
Each morning, Eliza would strip the bed completely. Sheets, blankets, pillowcases, all of it went into the washing machine. Sometimes she repeated the ritual again before nightfall. At first, I teased her about it. “You’ll scrub the color right out of those linens,” I said. She smiled politely and replied, “Clean sheets help me breathe easier.”