She leaned against the doorframe like it was the only thing holding her upright.
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
She wasn’t a “bad mother.” She was a kid herself. Probably 24. Terrified. Alone. Drowning in a world that doesn’t help anyone anymore.
I thought about my own daughter, living three states away. If she was this broken, would her neighbor scream at her? Or help her?
“I didn’t come to complain about the noise,” I lied. The lie tasted like ash, but I swallowed it.
I cleared my throat. “I… uh… I used to be a washing machine mechanic. Before I retired. I heard the motor struggling from my yard. Sounded like a belt issue.”
I have never fixed a washing machine in my life. I sold life insurance for 40 years. The only tool I know how to use is a fountain pen.
She looked up, hope flickering in those tired eyes. “Really?”
“Let me take a look,” I grunted, stepping inside.
The house smelled like sour milk and anxiety.
I walked to the laundry room, shooed her away, and pulled out my smartphone. I turned the volume off and searched for a video tutorial on “washer won’t drain.”
For the next hour, I lay on a linoleum floor that needed a good scrubbing. I wrestled with hoses. I got soaked with stagnant gray water. I cut my knuckle on a rusty clamp.
I found a baby sock stuck in the drain pump.
When I pulled it out and the water finally whooshed down the drain, I felt prouder than I did the day I retired.
I walked back into the living room.
She was sitting in the rocking chair, staring at the wall. The baby was still fussing, arching his back, fighting her.
“Fixed,” I said. “Just a clog.”
She looked at me and burst into fresh tears. “Thank you. I can’t pay you until the first of the month, but—”
“Stop it,” I snapped. Softening my tone, I added, “Neighbors don’t charge neighbors.”
I looked at the baby. “Go take a shower. A hot one. Wash your hair. You can’t take care of him if you don’t take care of you.”
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