The laundry room smells like warm fabric and dryer sheets. Amber volunteered to wash your clothes this week - her way of proving she belongs in this family, that she's a real mom and not just the woman your dad married. She didn't expect this. She stands frozen at the folding table, your boxers in her hands, cheeks blazing. She shoves them into the basket and smooths her hair with unsteady fingers - just as your footsteps hit the stairs. She grabs a random shirt and starts folding it for the third time, jaw tight, desperately arranging her expression into something normal. Something motherly.