“After a Night Shift, I Fell Asleep at the Laundromat with My Baby — Opening the Washer Left Me Speechless”

Willow is seven and a half months old, at that sweet age where she smells like warm milk and sunshine. Her tiny smile can erase the stress of mounting bills. Her dad left the moment I told him I was pregnant.

“I’m not ready for this,” he said, like fatherhood was a shirt he couldn’t wear. By my fifth month, I stopped checking my phone for him.

Now it’s just me, my mom, and Willow against the world. Mom helps while I work, and I tell myself the tight feeling in my chest is gratitude, not guilt. But she already raised kids once. She didn’t sign up for late-night bottles and diaper changes at 61, yet she does it without complaint.

We live in a small rented apartment on the second floor of an old building. The rent is okay, but there’s no washing machine. Laundry piles up, and I haul it down the street to the laundromat with its blinking neon sign and sticky floors.

That morning, after a long night shift, I walked in exhausted. My eyes burned, my body ached, my brain felt foggy—and the laundry basket was overflowing. I let out a long sigh.

“Guess we’re going to the laundromat, baby,” I whispered to Willow, dozing in my arms.

Mom was still sleeping, recovering from staying up most of the night with Willow while I worked. I didn’t want to wake her. She needed rest as much as I did.

Continue reading…