He had warned Mary Anne about Donna’s, let’s say, deficiencies when it came to performing domestic tasks that many others would deem both simple and foolproof. Although her entire life had been devoted and relegated to the domestic sphere, she had never really mastered anything in said art. And it is an art—though some would choose to condescendingly put that word in quotation marks. Those who see it for what it is though—hard, grueling work that takes more skill than most “high-minded” people think—would be inclined to put it in quotation marks as well when it came to appraising Donna’s abilities in the realm of cleaning, cooking and, above all else, doing laundry.

While many would have thought that the advent of washers and dryers in the 1800s (just one of the numerous “improvements” brought about by the Industrial Revolution) made it easier for everyone to clean garments (whether theirs or those of family and visiting friends), it seemed that Donna’s prowess in the laundry room would have benefited from these two modern conveniences having never been unleashed upon humanity at all. For, surely, if she had been forced to hand wash Mary Anne’s brand-new pleated skirt from Chanel, its fate might not have so dire.

Mary Anne, of course, couldn’t lash out at Donna after seeing the limp, practically depleted-in-their-entirety pleats of her most prized clothing item. And she couldn’t because this was her first time meeting Donna at all. At last, James had finally managed to take her back to Londonderry for the Thanksgiving holiday. The two had already been together for three years and it was starting to look strange that Mary Anne still hadn’t met James’ much-talked-about mother. Though James’ father had died long ago, Donna remained very much a force in his life. And she was highly curious about and involved in what he did, what he wanted. So for Mary Anne to have eschewed Donna for this long was a feat almost as impressive as ruining the pristine pleats on a black Chanel skirt.

Some might be wondering, Well, why the hell did Mary Anne give Donna her skirt to wash in the first place? The answer to that is: she did not. Donna happened to be one of those mothers who felt it appropriate to just enter a space where guests were staying and “do a sweep” to see if any domestic rigors could be applied. This included picking up so-called dirty clothes from the floor and shoving them into the washing machine, no consultation with the owner/wearer whatsoever. Although Mary Anne had been warned by James about Donna’s “jank Hestia” status, he did not warn her that she might do a random spot check while they were out, and that she ought to hide her clothes accordingly.

So it was that Mary Anne returned to the sight of her skirt “neatly” folded (a.k.a. shoddily plopped down) on her bed. At first, she thought that maybe Donna had only picked it up off the floor because she needed to vacuum or something (though, in truth, does anyone ever really need to vacuum?). But, upon closer inspection, she could see that it has been washed and, worse still, ironed—but not in a way that reinforced the pleats, so much as flattened them. Or so it seemed. How else could one explain the suddenly unpronounced pleats? Lacking the sharp, crisp definition they had possessed just hours before, when she had made the foolish decision to leave the skirt unattended. And the only reason she left it on the floor next to her bed was because they had been forced to leave in haste, and Mary Anne decided at the last second not to wear something so fine to the movie theater, switching into a Zara skirt in lieu of the Chanel.

So it was that the Chanel had been made vulnerable, predestined for destruction. Her initial reaction was to scream—which she held in—then to cry, which she was less adept at stifling. Hence, James walking into the room to find her shedding tears over the fallen skirt.

He immediately sidled up to her and asked, “What’s the matter?”

She looked from the lifeless form in her arms to James. “Your mom, she…she washed my skirt.”

James regarded the garment with a new somberness and took Mary Anne into an embrace. “I’m so sorry, Mary Anne. I had hoped this could be avoided. At least the first time you came to visit.”

Mary Anne sniffled into his shoulder. “You don’t understand though. It’s Chanel. I just bought it with my last paycheck. It goes with everything I have. I brought it so that I wouldn’t have to pack a bigger suitcase.” Her sniffles kept escalating as she continued, “Now I feel so stupid because I didn’t listen to what you told me. Except you didn’t tell me I could never turn my back!”

At this very moment, Donna trudged past the room (still in a robe and slippers with curlers in her hair) carrying a basket of laundry. Seeing Mary Anne’s distraught state, she, too, inquired about what was wrong. It would have been the perfect opportunity to let Donna know what she had done. In fact, to let her know, once and for all, what a failure she was at domestic life. Instead, James obliterated his perfect opportunity to do so by blurting out, “Mary Anne had a miscarriage.”

Mary Anne immediately ceased her tears, for her brain and body were giving way to a new emotion: rage. She stared daggers at James, who feigned oblivion, refusing to make direct eye contact with her as Donna dropped the basket to the floor and joined them in what was now a group hug. “Oh honey, I…I don’t know what to say. That’s…just awwwful.”

And yet, something about the way she hesitated with the word awful and then emphasized it made Mary Anne realize that she was actually relieved there was no baby. Likely because she wasn’t sold on Mary Anne as “mother of her son’s child” material. Mary Anne couldn’t help but smile to herself, knowing that Donna had unwittingly fallen for a trap that allowed her to know how she truly felt about “James’ lady friend.” That’s what Donna preferred to call her. Not “girlfriend.” Or, more serious still, “partner.” Knowing full well that the term “lady friend” was meant to refer to a “casual” relationship. Something less committal. That was Donna’s wishful thinking. Though maybe not after how James decided to handle this laundry misadventure. To be sure, Mary Anne was rethinking everything she previously thought she knew about James in terms of his character.

After a few more awkward minutes of Donna faux comforting Mary Anne over a miscarriage that didn’t happen, she finally left, saying she understood if they needed to spend some time alone. But also that she expected to see them at the dinner table in five minutes.

The second Donna was across the threshold, Mary Anne shut the door behind her, whipped back around and snapped at James, “You know what? I did miscarry—my fucking Chanel skirt when I decided to bring it here!”

James tried to take her in his arms again, but she backed away. He pled, “Come on, I told you this might happen. You should have been more careful.”

“Oh really? Why don’t you tell that to your mom about her laundry non-skills? Huh? And why the fuck did you lie to her about why I was upset?”

“You didn’t seriously expect me to hurt her feelings by telling her the truth, did you?”

Mary Anne, still holding the skirt like a wounded soldier, answered, “It would have been the perfect moment for you to tell her. To spare potential future victims from her domestic ineptitude.”

“I could never tell her she’s no good at doing housewife shit. Being a housewife has been her whole life.”

“Maybe if you told her she was shit at it, she would stop continuing to devote what was left of her life to that.”

James frowned. “No, I don’t think that would be right at all.”

Mary Anne drew closer to him. “And I don’t think it’s right that something I spent months saving for is now fucking ruined and I can’t say a goddamn thing about it to the person who fucked it up.”

James was losing his cool now. “‘Ruined?’ Come on, Mary Anne. You can still wear it.”

“Oh sure. Sure I can. Why don’t I just show up to work—at a marketing firm that specializes in fashion—wearing my deflated pleats? It sounds like good advice. Thank you, James.”

She dropped the skirt onto the bed and reached for her suitcase underneath it. James regarded her strangely. “What are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m not staying another minute in this house, lest something else is ruined. Apart from my skirt and this relationship.”

James closed her suitcase as she opened it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Us. This. It’s not gonna work out. I saw that just now.”

“I can’t believe you’re going this psycho over an innocent mistake my mother made. Not even me.”

“You had a chance to be forthright with her. Or, at the very least, not tell her that I had a miscarriage—which made her reveal all her cards to me. She doesn’t want me to be a permanent fixture in your life.”

“You can’t tell that based on how she reacted.”

Mary Anne removed James’ hand from the suitcase and started to pack. “You must be willfully naïve or really fuckin’ dense if you actually believe that.”

James’ face fell as he watched her pack with demoniacal focus. “You’re honestly leaving me the day before Thanksgiving?”

“I don’t see any reason to drag this out. My pleats are never going to be the same. And neither are we.”

His expression shifted from one of sadness to one of amused disbelief. “My god, you are one materialistic bitch, aren’t you?”

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself. But you might also ask if your mother is genuinely this bad at housework, or if it’s been a lifelong put-on designed to drive certain people away.”

James was about to respond to that, seemingly ready to pounce again with another insult for her, but instead, he set his jaw in place, as though locking it shut.

This was a relief to Mary Anne, who really didn’t want to bother dissecting any further all the reasons why the relationship was doomed. So she zipped up the suitcase, gave him a peck on the cheek and skittered out, not acknowledging his mother when she called out, “Where are you going?!”

She could have said that it was over between her and James—that Donna had won—but then, if she opened her mouth at all, she would have announced that she fully intended to send her a bill for the ruined skirt.