But nothing ever came.
So I stopped waiting.
Now it was just us.
Me, Willow, and my mom—our little three-person world, held together by routine, sacrifice, and a kind of love that doesn’t ask for permission to exist.
The laundromat was quiet that morning. Too quiet.
The hum of machines filled the space like white noise, and the faint smell of detergent hung in the air. A flickering neon sign buzzed in the window, casting a dull glow across the worn tile floor.
There was only one other person there—a woman in her fifties folding clothes with practiced hands. She glanced at Willow and smiled.
“Your little girl is precious.”
“Thank you,” I said softly, my voice barely there.
After she left, the silence grew heavier.
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