I dragged myself to the laundromat after a night shift, Willow, my seven-month-old daughter, asleep in my arms. Exhaustion hit me so hard that I fell asleep while the washer ran. When I woke up, my laundry was folded perfectly—but what I saw inside the washer made my hands shake.

I work at a pharmacy and often tell myself I’m on “day shift” just to get through the week. But the reality is harsher. When coworkers call in sick or the store is short-staffed, I take any shift I can get. The extra pay keeps baby formula, diapers, and necessities from turning into “maybe next week.”

Willow is seven and a half months old, at that sweet age where she smells like warm milk and sunshine. Her tiny smile can erase the stress of mounting bills. Her dad left the moment I told him I was pregnant.

“I’m not ready for this,” he said, like fatherhood was a shirt he couldn’t wear. By my fifth month, I stopped checking my phone for him.

Now it’s just me, my mom, and Willow against the world. Mom helps while I work, and I tell myself the tight feeling in my chest is gratitude, not guilt. But she already raised kids once. She didn’t sign up for late-night bottles and diaper changes at 61, yet she does it without complaint.

vering from staying up most of the night with Willow while I worked. I didn’t want to wake her. She needed rest as much as I did.