4.3.25 - The Book Keepers Dilemma pt 4

Parable 4: The Thing That Wasn’t Cleaned

The bathroom door stood slightly ajar, a thin line of light cutting into the hallway’s dimness. Inside, the mirror had fogged from an earlier shower, and someone had drawn a crude smiley face in the condensation. It stared back at Father like a dare.

He gripped the bottle of cleaner and stared into the bathroom. It wasn’t just messy. It was layered. Bottles with broken caps, empty tubes of toothpaste curled up like dried worms, a ring of soap scum gripping the tub like a stain that had learned how to hold on.

He didn’t want to clean it. Not really.

But he had said he would. So he would.

Father crouched by the toilet and began spraying. The cleaner hissed against the porcelain. The baby babbled somewhere down the hall, a cheerful chorus to the domestic penance underway.

His phone buzzed.

The screen lit up with a school alert: “REMINDER: Please RSVP for Kindergarten Orientation.”

He stared at it, thumb hovering.

Two of the kids were starting school this year. That was supposed to be a victory. A milestone. Instead, it felt like a deadline he hadn’t planned for. Like he’d missed something essential while sweeping up crumbs and checking homework and wondering if the WIC card would reload in time.

He shut off the screen and tossed the phone onto the counter.

Cleaning resumed.

Sort of.

He scrubbed for a few more minutes, but not with the same energy. He moved bottles to one side of the sink, wiped around them, then moved them back. The mirror he cleaned in wide circles, but only where it wasn’t fogged. The floor got a quick once-over.

He didn’t finish.

He meant to.

But the baby cried, and the oven beeped, and somewhere between grabbing the broom and answering a question about juice, the bathroom was left behind. Unfinished.

Again.

That night, when the house quieted and the dishes were dry, Father passed by the bathroom on his way to bed. The light was still on.

He paused at the door.

The smiley face had faded.

Only the outline remained, distorted, stretched by the pull of time and heat.

He thought about going in. About grabbing the rag and finishing what he started.

Instead, he flicked off the light.

The hallway dimmed.

And the thing that wasn’t cleaned—stayed that way.