I expected a trickle. I got a deluge.

"The pump is fine," Dad replied, his voice crackling over the line. "It’s the filter. When was the last time you cleaned it?"

By Friday, the thumping had become a groan. Bessie was fighting for her life. And on Saturday morning, she surrendered with a final, pathetic gurgle. I opened the lid to find a drum full of murky, gray water and a load of whites that looked like they had been steeping in a swamp.

I hung up and went to war.

Water exploded from the opening with the force of a fire hydrant, bypassing the baking sheet entirely and soaking into my pristine stack of towels. I scrambled, cursing, trying to catch the overflow with a plastic cup. It was a chaotic, sloppy mess, but eventually, the drum emptied.