“Does it work?” I asked.
The clerk shrugged. “It ran when we tested it last week. That’s all I can tell you.”
I stared at the machine, doing the mental math. Sixty dollars was a lot of money for us, but it was also the absolute cheapest option available. A new machine would cost hundreds, maybe over a thousand. Even other used machines I’d seen online were asking at least twice this much.
It’s this or hand washing, I thought. And hand washing for a family of four wasn’t realistic.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
Getting it home was an adventure. The store helped me load it into the back of my car with the seats folded down. It barely fit, and the kids had to squeeze into whatever space remained.
“I don’t have a working seat belt back here,” Milo complained.
“Then sit very still and think safe thoughts,” I told him.
Nora, who’d somehow ended up with the only functional seat belt, smiled sweetly. “You’re so strong, Dad. I bet you can carry it into the house all by yourself.”
I recognized flattery when I heard it. “I’m so old, Nora. And compliments won’t get you out of helping. Grab that side.”
Together—with the kids “helping” in ways that were more moral support than actual assistance—we wrestled the machine into the house and into the laundry room.
I hooked up the water lines, plugged it in, and stood back.
“Test run first,” I announced. “Empty load. If it explodes, we run.”
“That’s terrifying,” Milo said matter-of-factly.
“Welcome to adulthood,” I replied.
I closed the lid, set it to a basic wash cycle, and pressed start.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then water rushed into the drum with a reassuring sound. The machine hummed. The drum began to turn.
“So far, so good,” I muttered.
The kids crowded around, watching as if it were the most fascinating thing they’d ever seen.
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