I Used to Buy a Coffee for the Lady Who Folded My Laundry at the Laundrette… Until the Owner Told Me…

I used to buy a cup of tea for the lady who folded my clothes at the launderette, until the owner quietly explained to me,
She doesnt work here. She comes to remember.
Lad, this shirt is folded with care, not in a rush, shed scold me gently.
For weeks I thought she was absolutely the most dedicated employee Id ever met. Id leave a few pounds on the table, but she never once took them.
All she ever accepted was a cup of teamilk and two sugars, please.
It wasnt until I discovered why she caressed every item with such quiet devotion that I realised pressing a shirt could be the purest act of love.
I despise doing laundry. Im not married, Im 28, and my life feels like a never-ending sprint against the clock. Every Sunday, I trudge around the corner to the launderette on Marlborough Road. With my crumpled pile of dirty clothes shoved into a tote, Id load up the machines and scroll mindlessly on my phone while they ran. When the dryer beeped, Id extract my clothes and stuff them, still creased, right back into the bag.
Ill sort them out at home, Id lie to myself.
That was before I met Mrs. Hetty.
A small elder lady, snowy white hair always tied back, and a tartan pinny she wore every visit. Every Sunday, without fail, she was there. Id watch her gently folding sheets and T-shirts from random dryers with military precision, softened by a grandmothers touch.
Her sheets, perfectly sharp-edged.
Socks, matched and paired.
Shirts, smoothed as if they were made of silk.
One Sunday, she saw me wrestling a fitted sheet tied in knots.
Step aside, lad, she said, nudging in. Youre making a meal of it. Not how its done.
With two movements, the sheet was a perfect, flat rectangle.
Blimey, I said. Youre an artist. How much do you charge to do the lot?
She chuckled.
Dont take money, dear. But fetch me a cup of tea from the machine, milk and two sugars, and its a deal.
It became our ritual.
I washed. She folded.
And as she folded, she dished out life lessons disguised as laundry advice.
Dont mix towels with your delicates. A towels too rough, damages the fabric. Same with peoplepick your company wisely.
This shirt, see how the collars gone floppy? Needs starching. If you dont give yourself structure, no one will respect you.
Id just assumed she worked there.
That she was staff.
I left money, but she always returned it.
For the next person who needs some powder, shed say.
Last Sunday, she wasnt there.
My clothes came out of the dryer and just satcrumpled and a little forlorn.
I went into the back room to speak to Mr. Bennett, the owner.
Mr. Bennett, wheres Mrs. Hetty today? Is she having a day off?
He looked at me with a strange sort of smile.
Mrs. Hetty? The lady with the tartan pinny?
Yes, always folding the clothes.
He shook his head fondly.
Son Hettys never worked here, not a single day.
Hows that? Shes here every Sunday.
She comes because she wants to.
He told me the whole story.
Hetty lives in the upstairs flat. A year back she lost both her husband and her only son in a lorry accident. Both had been lorry drivers. For forty years, she washed and pressed their uniforms. It was her reason for getting up each morning. She wanted her boys dressed smart as anything on the road.
When they passed, she had no one to iron for. She stopped eating. The flat was weighed down with silence.
One day, she wandered into the launderette and simply asked to sit.
The scent of laundry softener soothes me, shed said.
And the hum of the dryers stops me hearing the emptiness back home.
Shed begun helping out youngsters like me. At first, she tried to charge. After a while, she refused payment.
All I want is to feel warm fabric in my hands again. To care for someone.
My words dried up.
Id thought Id been buying her a cheap cup of tea.
Shed been sharing her need to be a mum and a wife again.
Shed folded my shirts as if they were for her lad.
I climbed the steps and knocked.
Mrs. Hetty answered. She was wrapped in a blanket, a little under the weather.
Sorry, lad, I didnt make it down today. Are your clothes in a right old state?
Thats not why Im here.
Id bought a crisp white cotton shirt and a proper steam ironon my credit, to be honest.
Ive brought you a job, I said. Big meeting tomorrow, and I want to look my best. No one can do a collar like you. Will you show me how? Let me make the tea.
Her eyes lit up.
Come in then, lad. That shirts a delicate one, needs respect.
We spent the afternoon ironing.
She wasnt just smoothing out my shirt.
She was smoothing the creases in her own heart.
Now, I dont go to the launderette just to clean my clothes. I go to learn.
And Ive learned there are people with so much love inside them, needing only the simplest task to share it.
Mrs. Hetty isnt folding clothes.
Shes folding up lonelinessuntil its neat and manageable.
What do you thinkcan cooking, ironing, caring ever be a language of love, or is it just duty?
For some grandmas, its their way of saying I love you.
Loneliness softens when we feel needed.
If you know an elderly soul living aloneask them for advice, or a small favour.
Sometimes, its just what the doctor ordered.