Tidewoven Inc | The Dishwasher Incident: The Elise Intervention
Elise walked into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, car keys in one hand, travel mug in the other, running on exactly four hours of sleep and the fumes of determination. She stopped dead in the doorway. Lucy sat on a stool at the counter, kicking her feet and humming like a witness under protective custody.
Daniel leaned against the counter with the stiff posture of a man who’d just lost an argument but would die before admitting it. Micah was nowhere in sight, but the back door to the garage was cracked open like a crime scene exit route.
Elise took in the closed dishwasher, Daniel’s pinched mouth, and the faint emotional scorch marks in the air. “What,” she said flatly, “did you two idiots do?”
Lucy beamed. “Mom! They had a fight.”
Daniel straightened. “We did not have a fight.”
“Sure,” Lucy said. “A quiet fight. But a fight.”
Elise set her mug down like she was placing evidence. “Tell me.”
Daniel fidgeted with a dishcloth before replying. “Micah loaded the dishwasher wrong.”
“That’s not a crime,” Elise said. “That’s a learning opportunity.”
“He put the bowls in at an angle that would guarantee they’d flip,” Daniel said, as if the defense attorney had forced him to confess.
Elise stared at him. “And you decided the thing to do was… disassemble the entire dishwasher to prove a point?”
Daniel bristled. “I did not disassemble—”
“I know you. You rearranged,” Elise said. “Which is the same thing when you do it silently like a martyr.”
Lucy leaned in and whispered to her mother, “He really did rearrange everything.”
Daniel shot her a betrayed look. “Lucy.”
Elise held up one finger. “Where is Micah?”
“Garage,” Lucy reported. “He stomped.”
“I did not stomp,” Micah’s voice called from outside, muffled.
Elise lifted her eyebrows at Daniel.
Daniel sighed. “He stomped a little.”
Elise pinched the bridge of her nose. “Micah is living in our house during a catastrophic neurological event. You cannot rearrange the dishwasher like he personally threatened public health.”
Daniel opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked down. “I’m… working on things too.”
Elise softened about half a degree. “I know. But dishwashers are not the battleground.”
Lucy nodded. “It was kind of a battleground.”
Elise ignored that. “I’ll talk to him.” She stepped out into the garage, letting the door swing closed behind her. Micah was leaning against his beloved Driftwood, arms folded, jaw tight, looking like a man whose entire identity had been questioned by ceramic bowls. Elise stopped in front of him. “Micah.”
He didn’t look at her. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
He exhaled sharply. “He rearranged the whole thing.”
“I know.”
“I had a system.”
“I know.”
“It wasn’t wrong.”
“I know that too.”
He kept staring at the concrete floor like he was trying to burn a hole into another dimension.
Elise put a hand on his arm. Firm. Grounded. “You are not allowed to have emotional breakdowns over dishwashers,” she said. “Not because it’s wrong, but because you’re not actually mad at the dishwasher. Or Daniel. Or any ceramic plate on earth.”
Micah swallowed. Hard. Then his voice cracked low and quiet, the real truth underneath all the noise: “I’m just… tired.”
“I know.”
“And everything feels… thin.”
“I know.”
“And I can’t keep messing up small things.”
Elise shook her head, squeezing his arm. “You’re not messing up small things. You’re a man going through something impossible in a house full of people who love you and load dishwashers badly.” A tiny, involuntary laugh jumped out of him. Elise nodded toward the kitchen. “Come on. You both owe Lucy a show of adult maturity.”
Micah grimaced. “That sounds terrible.”
“Welcome to family life.” She didn’t let go of his arm until they walked back inside together.
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