One lazy morning, I was smoothing out the sheets on the bed, and I saw Amelia’s pajamas flung to the side. They were wrinkled, inside-out, and still had her faint scent. I grabbed them and decided they weren’t going to stay like that. I folded them and set them beside her pillow.
No fanfare.
She couldn’t have known I had done it. By the time the kids were in bed and she put them on, I was already at work. Most days, I leave before she’s even close to heading out the door. On different clocks, different rhythms.
But somehow, this little act bridged the gap.
It became a ritual and I didn’t even know it. Every morning, I’d straighten the covers and fold her pajamas. It felt good to do something for her without her asking.
I would drive to work, picture her finding them. Late in the evening, when the floorboards were an alarm. I would imagine her fingertips running over the soft cotton, pausing just a moment before she slipped them on. I could only hope she closed her eyes and maybe, in some small way, it would feel like I was there.
Weeks passed before I asked her if she’d noticed. I don’t even know why I waited. Maybe I didn’t want to make it a big thing.
Her answer was simple.
A soft smile.
“I love it. It means so much to me.”
That was the moment I understood.
The smallest acts can carry a whole heart.
A folded piece of cotton, waiting on a pillow,
can say I see you louder than words ever could.
may this kind of love find me