My mom sighs and takes her keys out. “What do you want to do, Scott?”

“Well, now that you’ve finally asked me,” my dad says, sounding suddenly less tired, “I’d like to get the hell home already.”

Inside the house, my mom still has her coat on as she takes her cleaning supplies out. I come over just as she’s trying to get revenge on the countertops. “Mom, stop. You’re scrubbing the enamel off them,” I say.

“Just a little spot here.”

“Judy,” my dad calls from his room.

“Just a second,” she says.

She’s going at the poor tiles with her elbows out, and her sponge is starting to tear. I touch her wrist gently. “Mom, come on.”

“I’m getting it, Cham.”

“Judy!” my dad calls again, louder this time.

“I’m coming, Scott!” she hollers back. “Just one—” In making her way down the cabinet with the paper towel, she notices I’m still wearing my combat boots.

“Cham,” she says, her eyes flashing, “why the hell didn’t you take your shoes off? I’ve been cleaning and cleaning and—”

“Mom, you gotta stop cleaning,” I say quietly, taking the spray bottle out of her hand. “I’m sorry about my shoes, but it’s a mess out there, a rainy, muddy mess, and the cleaner you try to make it, the more obvious it is when the shit gets in.” I look out the window at the tears the sky is throwing at us. “The shit always gets in.” I pull at one of her rubber gloves. Her hands are cracking open under them, which happens when skin soaks too long in soapy water. “Please, for the love of linoleum. Stop. Scrubbing.”

My mom sort of smiles, but it’s a smile that couldn’t bench-press a tooth. “Someone’s gotta keep things in order around here.”

My dad wheels in with his shirt half on. “Didn’t you hear me calling?” he says angrily. “I almost fell. Why were you ignoring me?”

“I can’t always be there immediately,” she says too loudly. I inch toward the stairs, sensing the mood turning. “I’m trying, but I can’t always—”

“Well, maybe if you didn’t waste time doing things I don’t want to do, you could actually take care of me when I need you.” He scowls at the floor, then uses the arm that isn’t in the shirt to pick at something on the tile.

“Dammit,” he mutters after a few tries. Then he licks his finger and wipes the crumb on the counter.

My mom intercepts him. “Don’t put that there! Don’t you see I’m cleaning?”

“You didn’t care that I didn’t want to go,” my dad says, abandoning the crumb and returning to the sleeve of his shirt. “You forced me into the car. You talked with Cham about me like I wasn’t there. I should’ve stayed here, let you two do whatever walking you wanted to do.”

My mom takes her gloves off and throws them on the counter. “Well, what am I supposed to do? I’m doing the best I can here. I’m doing this all by myself.”