“I’m 71. Every morning, before a towel touches my face, I smell it. My husband doesn’t know.”

Every morning, before a towel touches my face, I lift it to my nose and smell it. The bath towel, the hand towel, the little one for my face. Then I decide whether I can use it.

My husband, Frank, doesn’t know. Nobody knows. I’m 71, and I’ve done it every single morning since one Sunday last spring.

That Sunday my granddaughter Lily, who is eight, ran up the porch steps and hugged me. And she pulled back first. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

Eight-year-olds don’t pretend. That’s why it hurt.

I washed the towels twice. Then I washed them twice every time. I bought a new detergent. I put vinegar in the rinse because the internet said to. I ran everything on hot.

It came back by Wednesday. Every week, like clockwork: fine on Sunday, sour by Wednesday.

So I started checking. Every morning. If a towel smelled off, I’d slip it into the hamper and get another one before Frank was up.

My daughter Claire came for lunch in October and stopped in the bathroom doorway. I’d been drying every towel on the radiator, trying to beat the smell.

I told her. All of it. The hug, the smelling, Wednesday. She didn’t laugh. She picked up my bath towel, turned the tag over and read it out loud: “Cotton-polyester blend.” Then she opened the cabinet under the sink and held up my softener.

Claire sat me down and showed me what she’d found. I’ve since read it all for myself:

“Softener coats the towel, so it stays damp, and the smell moves in,” Claire said. “Washing twice doesn’t reset it. The towel itself is the problem.”

The next Sunday she came back with a box. Inside were eight white towels, heavier than anything in my closet. She made me read the tag myself.

It said one thing: 100% cotton.

“Long-staple Turkish cotton,” Claire said. “No softener, no finish, nothing. They wash them in plain water before they ship.” The brand is MIORA. The set is called The Switch.

Read the tag. If it says polyester, microfiber or “cotton-rich,” or nobody can tell you what it was finished with, put it back.

That’s what I said. Claire did the math on the back of an envelope: the extra detergent, the vinegar, the hot washes, the second load of towels every week. I was paying for that smell every month, and the towels I had would never stop holding it.

The Switch is $149.95, once, with free shipping. And you get two of every size, so one is always drying while you use the other.

Lily came up the steps at a run, the way she does, and hugged me around the middle. I waited for her to let go.

She didn’t. She stood there with her face in my cardigan and told me about her spelling test, the whole thing, start to finish.

Frank still doesn’t know about the mornings. I’m telling you instead.

Tonight, go smell your dry bath towel. Then wet one corner and smell it again. If it’s fine, ignore me.