After working an exhausting night shift at the pharmacy, I dragged myself to the laundromat with Willow, my seven-month-old daughter, sleeping heavily against my shoulder. I was so worn out that I nodded off while the washer rumbled. When I eventually jolted awake, my laundry sat neatly folded—but something inside the washer made my stomach drop.
I’ve been picking up every extra shift I can. When someone calls in sick or the store’s short-staffed, I volunteer, even if it means I barely sleep. The additional pay is the only reason I can afford formula, diapers, and the endless list of things a baby needs.
Willow is seven and a half months old, soft and warm and smelling like baby lotion and sunlight. One smile from her can crack through even my worst day. Her father bailed the moment I told him I was pregnant.
“I’m not ready to be a dad,” he said, as if fatherhood was something he could shrug off like an itchy sweater. By the time my pregnancy reached the halfway mark, I stopped hoping for a text from him.
Now it’s just me, my mom, and Willow—our tiny three-person team. My mom watches Willow while I work, even though she’s 61 and already did all of this once. I tell myself the heavy feeling in my chest is gratitude, not guilt.
Our apartment is small and old, a two-story walk-up with thin walls and a permanently leaky faucet. The rent is manageable, but there’s no washer or dryer. Laundry piles up fast, and I usually end up hauling it down the street to the laundromat with its flickering neon sign and floors that always feel slightly tacky.
That morning, after my shift, I walked inside barely able to keep my eyes open. The laundry basket overflowed. Willow dozed in her jacket, tiny fists curled under her chin.
“We’ve got to get this done, baby,” I whispered.
Mom was still asleep when I left. She’d been up half the night with Willow while I worked, and I didn’t want to wake her.
The laundromat was almost empty—just the low hum of machines and the familiar scent of detergent. A woman in her fifties was unloading a dryer. She glanced over, smiled, and said, “Your little girl is precious.”
“Thank you,” I murmured.
After she left, the place went quiet. I loaded everything into one washer—my uniforms, Willow’s onesies, towels, and her little elephant blanket. I fed in the last of my quarters, pressed start, and sat down in one of the hard plastic chairs.
Willow fussed, so I rocked her gently. I didn’t have a clean blanket, so I grabbed one from the dirty pile and wrapped her carefully. She sighed, settled against me, and the weight of exhaustion pressed down.
Just for a second, I told myself. Just a moment.
Then I fell asleep.
When I opened my eyes, the sun was cutting across the floor in bright slants. Panic shot through me. Willow was still nestled in my arms, safe—but something felt off.
