By the time I dragged our overstuffed canvas bag to the laundromat, the night shift was still ringing in my bones. Mia—seven and a half months old and smelling like warm milk—slept heavy against my shoulder. Overtime was the only thing keeping diapers and formula out of the “maybe next week” pile, so sleep happened where it could: on buses, in break rooms, wherever my body decided to fold. Mom had kept Mia while I worked, but she’s sixty-one and didn’t sign up to raise another baby. I let her sleep. I bundled Mia into a jacket, scooped up everything...
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