I nodded, because I always nodded, because I had learned not to question small absences after years of doctor visits, blood tests, and the quiet grief of pregnancies that never became cribs. Matthew said patience was important, that stress was bad for my health, that we would find our way when the time was right. His voice had grown practiced lately, as if reassurance was something he performed rather than felt.
I carried the laundry bag to Clearview Wash House, a modest shop on a corner street where the bell above the door chimed softly and the smell of soap clung to your clothes long after you left. The staff knew me well enough to greet me by sight, and I paid without thinking, accepted my receipt, and walked home believing that the day would end exactly the way it began.
Two hours later, my phone rang.
The number was unfamiliar, and for a moment I almost ignored it, assuming it was a wrong call or a survey. When I answered, the voice on the other end was careful and unsteady.
“Ma’am,” the woman said, “this is Clearview Wash House. I am so sorry to call you like this, but we found something in your husband’s clothing that scared us, and we did not know how else to handle it.”