From the moment my feet touch the floor each morning next to my bed, to the time I lift them from that same spot at night, they're in constant motion. The unnoticed details, like the gradual orange ring in the toilet or scattered spit on the bathroom mirror, seem to be my burden alone. Perhaps I'm overly meticulous or burdened by high cleanliness standards. Does it really matter if we shower in mildew-darkened tubs? Maybe it's just me. The mounting dishes, the lingering smell in the dishwasher, and the debris underfoot on my way to the kitchen for morning coffee shouldn't concern me, or should they? If no one else notices or cares, why let it bother me? Should I be indifferent to my son's morning routine, evident in his breath and teeth when I pick him up from school? Is it acceptable that his skin resembles a scaly snake, his lips cracked, and his grooming habits subpar? Am I merely a nagger, fussing over visible earwax and overdue clipping of his toenails? Could I