Marika called.

 

“Csabi, bring the laundry over today. I’ll wash it.”

 

“Thanks, Marika, but we can do our own laundry… will there be food?”

 

There was.

 

Marika is everybody’s mother hen. At the same time, she’s a serious, tough businesswoman. Everyone loves her cooking, the way you can recharge in her beautiful home, the late wine-drinking, smoking, and lounging on her terrace.

 

“Boys, just leave the stuff here. It’s two or three loads. I’ll dry everything, and when I’m driving that way, I’ll bring it back.”

 

“Alright, then we’re off. We’ll take Spuri for another walk…”

 

Whew, we got away with that one, Milán and I thought, and quickly put our shoes on.

 

The next day Marika called again.

 

“The clothes are ready.”

 

Milán brought them upstairs. I looked at the pile.

 

“What the hell is this?”

 

We had taken over two bags of T-shirts, workout shirts, and I won’t even list the rest. What we got back looked like some perfectly flattened package.

 

Jesus Christ… everything folded with razor-sharp edges, even the cheap workout shirts ironed.

 

“I need to ask Marika whether she does this by hand or with some kind of machine.”

 

That evening I took out a shirt.

 

It felt like when Edó and I used to shop in a Dior store… soft, light, warm.

 

And that’s when it hit me.

 

I haven’t felt this since September 1, 2024.

 

This feminine quality of life.

 

We men would honestly clean an apartment with a steam pressure washer if we could. Or at minimum with a bucket of water dumped everywhere, army-style.

 

“Marika, if you weren’t my friend, I swear to God I’d marry you.”

 

People talk — we talk — about all the stages and forms of grief.

 

But the hardest moments are these simple realizations.

 

Those hit you the hardest.