He Took the Laundry Basket Out of My Hands

Dear Delyara, I was coming down the hallway with it pressed against my ribs, one of those overloaded baskets with towels sliding sideways and one sock hanging off the corner. He looked up, stood up, and took it. Not after I asked. Not after I had already nearly dropped it. Before. That tiny before broke my heart a little. Because what I needed wasn’t help with laundry. It was to be interrupted before strain turned into resentment. To be spared the whole private sequence — carrying, over-carrying, feeling unseen, getting hurt by feeling unseen, then being offered help five minutes too late. He took the basket and kept walking. I stood there with empty arms and almost cried. That’s how starved I am for being met in time.