But then came the night he yelled.
You were changing the sheets again, this time after dinner, and you decided to rotate the mattress. Nothing extreme. Just the kind of practical chore married people do on weekends and weekday evenings when life gets too repetitive. You had lifted one corner and turned it a few inches when Miguel walked in from the garage.
“Don’t.”
The word cracked through the room hard enough to make you drop the mattress.
You turned, hand pressed to your chest.
“What?”
He was standing in the doorway with his laptop bag still over one shoulder. His face had gone pale, not angry-pale, but frightened pale. Then the fear vanished, and anger rushed in to cover it.
“I said don’t touch it.”
You stared at him.
“It’s a mattress.”
“I know what it is.”
“Then why are you acting like I’m breaking into a safe?”
His nostrils flared. “Because every time you start this cleaning obsession, the whole house turns upside down. Leave the bed alone.”
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