Inside the jacket
My husband, Ethan, had severe germaphobia. Even if I just ran downstairs to take out the trash, I had to shower and change all my clothes before I was allowed to touch him.
A month ago, I fractured my right wrist. The doctor told me not to get it wet.
I asked Ethan if he could help wash my delicates for a few days.
He didn't say a word.
That very afternoon, he bought me a hundred-pack of disposable underwear.
I didn't blame him. In fact, I turned around and comforted him instead.
"It's fine, Ethan. I know it's hard for you."
