That’s when my stomach dropped.
On Saturday mornings, I usually called down the hall, “Last call for dirty clothes,” and she’d drag her basket out with a groan.
But lately, her basket came out half-empty. A few shirts. A pair of jeans. None of the new things I’d seen her wearing.
That evening, I went into her room with folded towels and found a laundromat bag tucked behind her desk.
Inside was a sweatshirt I had never seen before. Soft, high-quality, freshly washed. Not thrift-store clean. Not hand-me-down clean. Carefully laundered, neatly folded.
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