She had never treated me badly.
She paid me on time.
She left the air conditioning running whenever she went out while I cleaned.
And she always remembered to ask about my daughter.
But we weren’t exactly friends.
We didn’t call each other during the week.
We didn’t meet for coffee.
I had a key to her home, but I still felt like I needed permission before taking a glass from her kitchen cabinet.
When I first began working for Mrs.
Whitaker, my daughter, Willa, was only nine.
I had recently separated from Willa’s father and was taking every cleaning job I could fit between school drop-off and pickup.
Money was tight.
Some weeks, frighteningly tight.
Mrs.
Whitaker had found one of the handwritten advertisements I’d posted around town and called me.
