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