I was about six years old, sitting at the giant wooden dining table that only came out for “special occasions”—Christmas, Thanksgiving, or whenever Grandma wanted an audience. The whole family was packed in: parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, elbows bumping, voices overlapping. Roasted chicken filled the air, cornbread vanished fast, and Grandpa was retelling—for the fiftieth time—his heroic fishing story about surviving by “following the North Star.”
Between the mashed potatoes and my third helping of mac and cheese, I felt inspired.
Our teacher had just told us, “Family dinners are for sharing.”
Six-year-old me took that as a mission.
I sat up straight and announced proudly,
“Grandma! Should I tell everyone what you and Grandpa do when you’re in your room together?”
Silence slammed the table.
Grandma froze mid-bite. Grandpa stared at me like his soul left his body. My mom choked on her drink. My dad muttered, “Oh God…”
Every adult turned toward me, silently begging for mercy.
Grandma squeaked, “Sweetheart… what exactly have you seen?”
Grandpa closed his eyes.
I leaned back and declared at full volume:
“SHE MAKES HIM FOLD THE LAUNDRY!”
For one perfect second, the room froze—then erupted. Laughter, tears, pounding fists on the table.
Grandpa sighed and muttered, “Well… she’s not wrong.”
For years after, whenever he bragged about being “the man of the house,” someone would ask,
“Do you fold towels by color or size?”
And just like that, a family legend was born.
