Grace nudged the laundry basket forward with her hip, the woven plastic edge leaving a faint red mark on her skin. The hallway smelled faintly of baby lotion and detergent—scents that had once made her heart swell but lately just reminded her of endless cycles of washing, folding, and putting away clothes that would be dirty again tomorrow.
As she passed the mirror hanging by the bedroom door, her eyes flicked up involuntarily. It wasn't that she wanted to look; it was that avoiding the mirror had become so much a habit that when she accidentally caught herself in it, it felt like being ambushed. She barely recognized the woman staring back.
Her hair was pulled into a loose bun that had given up halfway through the day. Shadows sat stubbornly under her eyes, the kind that no concealer could cover after years of interrupted sleep. Her body… she swallowed hard. The soft swell of her belly pressed against her sweatshirt. Her hips curved wider than they had before three pregnancies. Thin silver lines of stretch marks crisscrossed her skin like a quiet map of battles fought and won.
She knew what her husband would say if he saw her staring like this. You're beautiful, Grace. You're still the woman I married. But his words slid off her like rain on glass. She'd smile, nod, and think, He's just being kind.
The laundry basket felt heavier than it should as she lowered it onto the couch. Inside were tiny socks, mismatched pajamas, shirts with faint stains that no amount of scrubbing could erase. She folded them in neat stacks, her hands moving on autopilot.
When the last shirt was folded, she glanced at the clock. The house was finally still; the kids had been tucked into bed half an hour ago. That precious pocket of quiet time—time she could use to read, shower, or simply sit without anyone asking for something—was suddenly interrupted by the buzz of her phone.
It was a message from Naomi: Coming to Bible study tonight? I could use the company.
Grace stared at it, thumb hovering over the keyboard. She was tired. Her sweatpants had seen better days. The thought of putting on real clothes, of driving across town, felt like too much. But the truth was, she was tired of this—the rut, the way she felt about herself, the sense that she'd become invisible. She had been promising herself for months that she would do something to change, even if she didn't know what.
She typed back before she could talk herself out of it: I'll be there.
Upstairs, one of the kids coughed in their sleep. Grace pulled on a clean sweater, smoothed her hair as best she could, and slipped on her shoes. She hesitated at the front door, keys in hand. For a moment she thought about turning back—about telling Naomi something had come up. But then she stepped outside, locking the door behind her.
The night air was cool against her skin, almost like a reset button. She took a deep breath, slid into the driver's seat, and started the engine. Maybe this was nothing. Maybe it wouldn't help. But at least it was a step.