I was folding laundry in the middle of the day today in our bedroom. I had spent Saturday and Sunday in San Francisco because my best friend was there visiting with her mom and sister. After two long days of exploring, laughing, eating, and walking our way through the city, I wanted to spend this morning getting some errands and house things taken care of before launching into my workweek.

I was working my way through darks, carefully halving and pressing the fabrics together into neat piles. Then, I picked up a black t-shirt with a circular Santa Monica logo on it, its bottom seam cut away to make it into a crop top. But it wasn’t my crop top.

I held it out in front of me and stared at it for a while, my mind trying to figure out if the cut shirt was actually a men’s size XL that could fit onto John’s tall body. I peered at the tag that read “one size,” and then examined its petite “one size” further. This was a woman’s shirt, but whose?

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