She struggled to reach the washing machine. Couldn’t lift the bag high enough. I watched her try three times before I walked over. “Need help, little one?”
She looked up at me with these huge brown eyes full of tears she was fighting not to shed. “I can do it myself,” she whispered. “Mama says I’m a big girl now.”
I knelt down next to her. “Hey, it’s okay. Everyone needs help sometimes. Even big girls.”
I lifted the bag easily and started loading her clothes into the machine. That’s when I noticed they were all adult clothes. Women’s clothes. And they all smelled like medicine. Like hospitals. Like death.
“Where’s your mama, sweetheart?” I asked gently.
“She’s in the car,” Destiny said quickly. Too quickly. “She’s tired. She told me to do the laundry by myself because I’m big enough now.”
I knew she was lying. You don’t live sixty-eight years without recognizing a scared kid trying to protect someone.
But I didn’t push. Just helped her load the clothes, showed her how much detergent to use, and gave her the quarters for the machine.
“Thank you, mister,” she said. Then quieter: “Please don’t tell anyone I needed help. Mama will be disappointed.”
I found out the truth the following week when Destiny came in again. Same trash bag. Same struggle. But this time she was wearing the same clothes she’d worn the week before.
