I open the dryer and pull out the still-warm clothes. Sweet little girl dresses. Pink shorts with frilly hems. Princess underwear. All these things are foreign to a mom of three boys.
A new camp friend watches me fold as she readies herself for bed. If she wonders why I’m folding so much pink she never asks.
I pile the laundered clothes into a neat pile. I make quick work of it. I don’t want to be found out. One part of committing random acts of kindness is the covertness of the sting operation.
I join Junko at the sink where side-by-side we brush our teeth.
The sound of the wood door hitting the jam causes us to turn.
“My laundry,” the woman says and smiles. “Who did this?”
I shrug my shoulder, turn back towards the sink and continue brushing.
“She did,” Junko offers, pointing to me.
I adopt a tactic I sometimes use with my kids: Ignore and maybe they’ll stop talking.
“You did?” the woman asks.
Still brushing. Still ignoring.
“Yes,” Junko clarifies.
My cover blown I spit my toothpaste and turn. And dazzle her with my shiny grin.