I forgot the wet washing until bedtime

Dear Delyara, At ten-thirty, already in my pyjamas, it came back to me in one horrible flash. The washing machine. Still full. Still wet. I went downstairs feeling angry in that disproportionate way tired people get angry at small things. Not because of the clothes themselves, but because forgetting them felt like proof that my head had once again become too crowded for ordinary life. I hung the clothes up in the utility room in silence, half irritated, half ashamed, and thinking about how many women’s evenings are quietly shaped by this kind of thing. Not tragedy. Not drama. Just one more task remembered too late by the same overused brain that remembered fifty other things on time. The clothes dried. My mood took longer.