The Feast Was Only an Excuse

Five in the morning on the first day of the holiday. The market has only just switched on its string of bulbs. She walks between the stalls with a plastic basket, already sorting in her head which dish has to go on the stove first. The family gathers once a year, so this morning starts earlier than any other morning.

By noon the other room is loud. Glasses knocking together, someone retelling an old story, laughter arriving in waves. She is at the sink, water running, the stack of bowls slowly going down. The strange part is that she is washing slower than usual. Finish fast and it is over; over means someone stands up to leave. So let the water run a little longer, let them keep their reason to stay seated. A whole day in the kitchen was never about the food being better — it was about this house being full for one more evening.

The night before, she had messaged everyone one by one. Her younger sibling replied briefly: busy tomorrow. At the market she bought one extra portion anyway. Said nothing about it, wasn't upset about it. At nine the next evening the door opened and there they were, still in work clothes, hair damp. It turns out "busy" rarely means not wanting to come — it means not daring to promise. She got up and set out one more bowl.

Then the party ends. Chairs pushed out of line, glasses half full, plates stacked crooked. Everyone leaves, and the house goes quiet enough to hear a tap drip. She is washing the last glass when someone steps in beside her — her father, sleeves already rolled up, finishing what is left. Neither of them says anything. Two people, one sink, and an entire evening that has just gone by.

The best part isn't when it's crowded. It's when two of you are left.

Tomorrow the house empties again, everyone back to their own corner. But next year, when someone asks how that holiday went, nobody will remember what was on the table.

In your house, who is usually the last one still cleaning up?