Hadn't she hung it up enough times? It should have stopped giving her that seizing feeling in her chest, that little breath of ice down her spine as if memories were literally washing over her.
Taro was big enough to wear it now, but that didn't make it any less her father's shirt. It was the tiniest fraction of something he'd left behind, something that none of them could really bring up without the awkward, empty feeling.
It was a feeling she had grown accustomed to with her mother. She was a rather subdued woman — Koto supposed it was that aspect of her that made her overprotective of her first child, her first son, and why Taro had been less eager to explore his wild nature. But Koto was the second child, a daughter, and inherently less valuable. But to her father, she had all the value in the world. While their mother stayed home babying Taro, Koto would be out roaming with their father, learning how to laugh at blood and pioneering a straightforward attitude that would condemn her by the time he was in his grave.
And now, coupling the most boring of tasks — laundry — with memories of her father and what he stood for seemed entirely wrong. She hated these menial chores, taking orders. She craved action, excitement. This wasn't what she had dreamed her life would be like. It wasn't what she wanted at all.
She had felt so very lifeless since he'd gone.