I’ll never forget that morning. After another exhausting night shift at the pharmacy, I could barely keep my eyes open as I carried my seven-month-old daughter, Willow, to the laundromat. She slept softly against my chest while I loaded the washer — tiny onesies, towels, my work shirts — everything in one tired heap.
I sat down, meaning to rest for just a minute. The rhythmic hum of the machines, the warmth of Willow’s body, and the quiet of the empty room lulled me into a deep, unplanned sleep.
When I woke, sunlight poured through the window. For a moment, I panicked — until I realized what had happened. My laundry had been neatly folded on the table beside me. Inside the machine sat baby formula, wipes, diapers, a soft blanket, and a little stuffed elephant. On top was a note:
“For you and your little girl. — J.”
Tears blurred my vision. Someone had seen me — not the exhaustion, but the effort. Someone had cared, quietly, without expecting anything in return. Holding Willow close, I felt something I hadn’t felt in weeks: relief… and hope.
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