My Mother-In-Law Assigned Me The Shoe Sink During Her Anniversary Speech

I had my eyes shut when Darlene found me behind the wall.

My feet stayed on the shop floor. My right hand rested on a new climbing hold fixed to a test board. I checked every new hold that way, without sight, feeling for a sharp edge that a bright color might hide.

“You can play with those later,” she said. “We have guests.”

I opened my eyes.

I was a small Japanese American woman of thirty-three, with straight black hair cut at my jaw, brown eyes, and a pale scar across my left thumb.

The scar came from my first mold, back when I thought gloves made me less skilled.

I knew better now.

I made modular climbing walls and set routes for a living. That meant I built the panels, shaped where hands and feet went, and climbed the finished paths to check how they moved.

At Huxley Climbing Hall, in Lincoln, Nebraska, it also meant I fixed things nobody saw.

Darlene Huxley was a tall white woman of sixty-two, with a silver bob, pink cheeks, and gold glasses on a pearl chain.

She wore those glasses low when she wanted someone to feel twelve.

“The new volume needs another test,” I said.

“The shoes need cleaning.”

She pointed toward the rental counter.

“Marta has that shift.”

“Marta looks better with a tray.”

Through the doorway, I saw our front desk worker carrying little cups of cider. The gym smelled of chalk, warm rolls, and the damp coats people wore in from an April rain.

It was the gym’s twentieth anniversary. Darlene had put linen covers over the folding tables. Beyond them, our tall climbing wall rose like a gray bluff.

Along its seams, tiny blue lines crossed certain bolt heads and steel plates.

I had painted those witness marks after the last inspection. If a bolt shifted, its line would break. A small mark could tell you something large had moved.

“I’m supposed to speak about the wall,” I said.

“We changed that.”

She left before I could ask who we were.

My husband, Ben, stood beside the stage, straightening a banner. He was Darlene’s only son. His name sat under hers on the gym’s ownership papers.

“Did you know?” I asked him.

He glanced at the sink.

“She wants the evening to run smoothly.”

“Then she should follow the staff plan.”

“Aiko. One night.”

I looked down at my work shirt. Blue Trace Fabrication was stitched over the pocket. My company. My name on the bank account. My money in the wall.

“It’s been more than one night,” I said.

He reached for the banner again.

I went to the counter, but I did not pick up a brush.

Under the counter sat my inspection binder. Behind the torque sheets and panel numbers was a lease, signed eighteen months earlier. I checked that its tab was still there.

Then I sent Rina Sato a message.

Are you still coming? Bring the payment schedule.

Her answer came before Darlene tapped the microphone.

Already printed.

Rina was my commercial attorney. She was also the only person I knew who could turn a friendly climbing contest into a quiet war over one foothold.

She had helped me before I put the first panel in this building.

“Steel doesn’t remember a promise,” she had said. “Paper helps.”

Now Darlene welcomed the guests. She thanked her donors, her instructors, and her son.

Then she saw me beside the counter.

“And there’s our Aiko,” she said. “She’ll be cleaning the rental shoes tonight. Route setters aren’t real partners, but everyone can serve the family.”

A few people laughed because they thought they were meant to.

Marta lowered her tray.

“I can take the shoes,” she whispered.

“Keep your shift,” I told her.

Darlene pulled a cloth from a display board.

Under it was a drawing of a new building near the edge of town, with a taller wall and a wide front window. Across the top, large letters read HUXLEY NORTH: OPENING THIS FALL.

My wall panels were shown inside it.

“Our expansion is fully backed,” she said. “Aiko’s wonderful gifts will go right along with us.”

I walked closer.

There were my panel shapes. My steel anchor assemblies. Even the narrow training corner I had designed for shorter climbers.

The lease barred moving any of them without my company’s written consent.

I had given none.

“Those aren’t gifts,” I said.

The microphone carried my words because Darlene still held it between us.

Her smile stayed in place.

“Don’t start counting favors in front of company.”

“I’m counting equipment.”

At the front door, a woman folded a wet umbrella with great care. Rina looked at the display, then at me.

She lifted a thin gray folder.

“Good,” she said. “Everyone who needs to see this is here.”