You are carrying it wrong, the way you always carry it, balanced on one hip with your chin holding down the top so nothing spills, walking sideways through the hall. There is a sock on the floor behind you. Leave it. You will spend a lot of years being irritated by that sock, or its cousins, and I want to tell you something from up here: the sock does not matter.
What matters is the warm bundle against your chest. The towels straight from the dryer. You bury your face in them for half a second, right now, when you think no one is watching, and you have no idea you are doing it. I remember it better than almost anything.
That basket is full because the house is full. Small shirts. That one hoodie that isn't yours. A pair of jeans with a knee worn through from someone who was, this week, exactly the size they will never be again.
You are thinking about how you do this every Sunday, forever, like it will always be this heavy and this ordinary.
It won't stay this heavy. I promise you it won't.
So here is the only thing I came back to say. When you dump this basket on the bed and start folding, folding the same shapes you have folded a thousand times, humming without noticing: slow down. Not to fix anything. Just to be there a little longer.
You are, at this exact moment, doing the thing you will miss most, and calling it a chore.