Rebellious geezers

When I’m at my parents’ house minding their business—running errands, meeting with their financial adviser and the like—I start out being supersensitive to their feelings. But by midweek, I’ve shed all delicacy as I try to root out mildew in the bathrooms, toss out moldy food in the fridge, swab down the kitchen cupboards. As if they were children and spoke a different language, I enunciate slowly and loudly, carefully explaining the health hazards I’m righteously eliminating. No matter how nice I try to be, my voice rasps with exasperation. I realized I’d gone too far the other day when my father said a bit pathetically, “But I like sour milk.”