It was just after dawn when I trudged into the laundromat, seven-month-old Willow asleep in my arms and a bag of laundry slung over my shoulder. Twelve hours on my feet at the pharmacy had left me exhausted, my fingers trembling from counting pills, my body aching. I told myself I was strong. I told myself I was lucky. The truth? I was surviving one shift at a time.
The fluorescent lights hummed above, the air heavy with detergent and warm metal. Only one person was there — a woman folding towels with the calm of habit. She smiled at me and Willow. “What a beautiful little girl,” she said softly.
I nodded, forced a smile, and started loading the washer. When I looked again, she was gone. Just me, my baby, and the machines.
I shoved our clothes into the washer — uniforms, onesies, towels, even Willow’s beloved elephant blanket — and sat down, rocking her gently. Exhaustion claimed me, and I must have dozed off.
When I woke, the light had shifted. Relief hit me first — Willow was safe, still asleep in my arms. Then I looked around. My laundry… was folded. Every shirt, every towel, every tiny sock. Neatly stacked on the table.
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