Mid-fold

Half the laundry is still warm.

I fold it anyway,

creased in the quiet way my mother never taught me.

The dryer hums behind me—

a softer sound

than the yelling I used to mistake for ordinary.

There’s a sock tucked into a sleeve,

small, unmatched.

My youngest’s, probably.

I press it flat, gently—

as if softness were a language

I had to learn from scratch.

I’m not thinking about the past—

not exactly.

Just that I never remember being held

while the laundry spun.

Only silence,

and the careful way I learned

not to make more noise

than the machines.

My kids spill into the kitchen,

laughing—

mock-arguing over who gets the bigger cookie.

Then inevitably give their baby brother the one they all wanted.

And I feel it again:

that strange, aching disbelief

that they get to be children

in ways I never was.

I couldn’t imagine

handing them what I carried.

Not even the smallest shard.

Not even the shape of the weight.

So I fold,

and smile

and let them be loud.