She had heard from her sister that I had a new, high-paying job.

She walked right up to our table, ignoring the girls.

“I need five hundred dollars,” Sarah said coldly.

“You’re making real money now, and technically, we’re still married.”

“If you don’t give it to me, I’ll go to the court and tell them you’re keeping my daughters from me.”

My body went completely cold.

I stood up, my knees shaking.

“You took the emergency money and left them, Sarah,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I don’t care,” she smirked, tapping her long fingernails on the folding table.

“No judge is going to believe a warehouse worker over a mother.”

Before I could answer, a shadow fell over the table.

It was Clara.

She was holding a heavy bottle of bleach in one hand.

“Actually, Sarah,” Clara said, her voice sharp as glass.

“I’m a retired county clerk.”

“And every Sunday for the last two years, I’ve seen this man bring these girls here alone.”

“I have the security footage from this building saved on my home computer.”

“And I have two years of receipts showing he paid for every single wash while you were nowhere to be found.”

Sarah turned pale. She looked at Clara, then at the bleach bottle, then back at me.

“This is ridiculous,” Sarah spat, her voice shaking.

“You’re all crazy.”

She turned on her heel and practically ran out of the laundromat.

Her expensive heels clicked frantically against the concrete outside.

We haven’t seen her since.

I looked at Clara, who was already heading back to her dryer.

“She won’t be back,” Clara said with a small nod.

Now, our Sundays are different.

We still do our laundry at Spin City, but we don’t count quarters anymore.

We bring a box of fresh donuts from the bakery next door.

Layla sits on the table, her face covered in powdered sugar, telling Clara about her kindergarten class.

And our cracked blue basket is gone.

We have a new green one, and the handle doesn’t hurt at all.