The Weakest Ink is Mightier than the Strongest Memory.

- Chinese proverb

The white linen pants were a bad call from the beginning. I was shopping at Gabe's, and saw all the gauzy, fluttery white pants and skirts. I easily imagined myself walking along the beach, the wind whipping my skirt hem, or my pant legs, as the sun set.

I described the scene to those around me, and was told, "It sounds like you want to be in a tampon commercial."

True, maybe that's where I got the idea.

But with a beach trip coming up, I couldn't resist the Eileen Fisher cropped white linen pants.

They still had the original $168 store tag, but I got them for far less.

I brought them home, excited to wear them on my vacation.

Then, after further calculations, I realized I'd likely be menstruating the week I was on vacation, and white pants, at the beach, while on my period really would be a tampon commercial, and I wasn't brave enough to star in it. I set the white pants aside.

After yet more calculations, it became obvious I would be able to wear my new pants on vacation, so I decided to wash them, along with some of my other laundry. I asked Ron to bring my laundry up, and I quickly started the load before going out to dinner.

We got back from dinner, and I switched the clothes over. All the clothes had purple smudges on them. My white pants were now grayish pink, with purple smudges. At the bottom of the washer was an ink pen. Ron's good work shirt had ink stains all over it.

I called for my can of hair spray and began scrubbing the ink out of Ron's shirt. He came in and asked what was going on. I showed him the shirt, and asked if it was a favorite. He told me that, yes, it was one of his very favorites. I scrubbed harder.

Paige appeared, asked what happened. "Someone left a pen in the washer, and it ruined the clothes."

Paige looked at her dad. "It was him."

"What?" we said in unison.

"Not me! I check my pockets!" Ron protested.

I held up the pen, a red and silver one unlike any others in the house.

The shocked look of recognition was all I needed to see.

"Oh, god, Lis. I'm sorry!" he said.

I stopped scrubbing the shirt at once and looked at my pants. There was no hope for them.

Ron seemed genuinely sorry, so I couldn't yell at him.

But I did ask,

"Where is my 'scrubber'? You ruined your own shirt, but there I am, trying to scrub it clean for you. Where is that person for me? Who would have seen my pants and quickly begun trying to get the ink out of them, not because they did it, but because they knew I'd be disappointed? Does that person even exist?"