Samar
dreaded whenever Sandra would begin dusting the house. She would come to clean his
study room which would trigger another argument about giving away this rusted
sewing machine. He couldn’t make Sandra understand that it was precious. It was
this machine on which his mother had sewn garments all her life to bring him up
after his father left. Whatever Samar was today, he owed it to this machine
and his mother’s deft hands on it. But for Sandra it was a blot on pricey
interior decoration. He sighed and prepared for another exhausting discussion
with his wife.
Written
for the photo prompt for this week's Friday Fictioneers
