Beating her alarm she rolls out of bed, trudging down two sets of stairs to the basement. Yes! The clothes are dry. You never know with that fickle dryer. She puts in a wet load to dry and a new load to wash.
Basket in hand, she travels up the steps and stops at the kitchen table to fold the basket's contents, every person's clothes in their own neat little pile. After completing this chore, she makes her way up the steps once more.
With the occupants of the house still deep in sleep, she drops off piles for each of them: first the brothers, then Dad. She pauses outside of sister's room to acknowledge a small victory: the shirt that the young girl had prayed would be washed and ready to wear in the morning is in her hands. It is placed on the top of sister's pile in plain view for when she awakens. Pleased with her work, she walks down the stairs, through the dim light of dawn, onto her next task.
Is she an angel? No, she is a mom.
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