Washing-Up

When I went to the loo,

Dad started on the washing-up.

He’d scraped the cold potato into the bin

and was scrubbing the pan clean.

I can do that, I said.

He smiled.

Nah. It’s my turn.

And, hey, the dinner was fine.

I’m just a grump.

I didn’t reply.

I set to drying the plates,

asking myself if his changed mood

meant I was loveable after all.