I’ve accepted that I cannot control the gloomy chaos in my sons’ lives now that their father and I have decided to divorce. This is a huge step for me. Still, my boys deserve to know comfort—specifically the mind-altering experience of lying under a perfectly made bed.

But first, I must get rid of those monstrous top sheets, which also means throwing out most of my upbringing. It’s okay. Top sheets, like so much of my mother’s advice, have wound up useless at the foot of every bed I’ve ever slept in.

Duvets are the way to go. They are upscale and breezy, and you don’t pronounce the T. It’s a subtle snobbery I appreciate even though I no longer drive a Range Rover.

But boys are not coded for appreciation, at least not to the extreme I crave. They eat pretzels in bed. They seem to spill only purple Gatorade. Candy from Easter baskets gets disemboweled upon waking. Since their father doesn’t live with us anymore, his rules about sweets and food upstairs no longer apply.

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