I thanked her. As she moved to another aisle, she called, “Look at the Samsung in the corner. I think you’ll like it.”
Her words lifted me. I chatted with another customer about machine brands and chose the Samsung she pointed out, paying $120 cash. The salesman, Arnold, said it “still spins.” That worked for me. With the customer’s help, I got it into my old Ford.
At home, I waited for my neighbor to help move the old machine out and the new one in. The twins played with blocks in the living room while I set up the Samsung. I was too nervous to wait, afraid it wouldn’t work.
I tossed in a pile of dirty clothes, hit the cycle button—and nothing. The drum didn’t budge.
Grumbling, I opened the door and felt around, acting like I knew what was wrong. Then I found it—a small cardboard box jammed inside, stopping the drum.
I yanked it out, puzzled how it got there. A note was glued on top, in neat cursive: “For you and your children. —D”
I wondered if the shop missed the box, meaning they didn’t test the machine. I was annoyed, but the note’s words—“your children”—stopped me. Was it meant for me?
My hands trembled as I opened the box. Inside were two shiny house keys on a ring with a red tag and a printed address.
I thought it was a mix-up, but then I pictured Diane, the woman from the store. My stomach flipped.
I dropped to the laundry room floor, stunned. The twins toddled over, bored. “Daddy, what’s that?” Daisy asked.
