He gave me a contact to scrap the old machine. By day three, my hands were raw and bleeding. Poppy saw and said, “Daddy, your hand’s red.” Daisy looked, went pale, and puked on her clothes. That was my limit.
I pushed aside my pride, put the twins’ stroller in the car, and drove to a secondhand appliance shop with old fridges outside and a “No refunds!” sign. Inside, I spotted some cheap machines. I was eyeing a worn-out Whirlpool when a soft voice came from behind.
“They’re so cute. Twins?”
I turned to see an older woman, maybe late 60s, with gray hair in a tidy bun and a floral blouse. Her eyes were warm.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smile. “Double the fun.”
She chuckled. “Where’s their mom? Or is this Daddy’s day out?”
My throat tightened. I hated that question, but her kindness made me honest. “No mom. Just us.”
Her face softened. “That’s hard. I’m sorry.”
I shrugged. “Thanks. Some days are rougher, but we’re getting by.”
She nodded, like she got it, and touched the stroller lightly. “You’re doing well. Don’t forget that.”
