It was a difficult decision to make–for both Hubby and I.
“What do you think?” he asked anxiously. I eyed his favourite cardigan. I had been with him when he bought it. We weren’t married then. The sweater was now worn and looked as if a family of field mice began nesting in the pockets. Small holes–which I had diligently mended in the past–had already reappeared, looking like some voracious alien had nibbled away at the pockets, the ribbing, the sleeves.
“It has to go,” I said firmly. The more I examined the weary sweater, the more it seemed to disintegrate in front of my eyes.
Heaving a reluctant sigh, Hubby looked at me and said, “I’ll toss it out if you toss out something too.”
“What?” I asked, wondering what I had to contribute to the junk heap.
“How about your writing sweatshirt? It’s barely hanging together and you…
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