Haley's Point of View
Morning came like a soft knock on a door I didn't want to open. The air was crisp—not cold, not warm—but the kind that whispered change.
I stood barefoot in the kitchen, flipping eggs over a quiet flame. The scent of onions and tomatoes filled the air, and I poured the tea just the way Mum liked it—three spoons of milk, one and a half of sugar.
I carried the tray gently into her room and placed it on the bedside table. Her eyes fluttered open and met mine.
"I made your tea. Toast and eggs too," I whispered, brushing her hair back.
Mum had gone quiet since the incident, but I was used to that. It didn't mean I couldn't talk to her.
The doorbell rang—sharp, familiar. I didn't need to check the time.
Maria.
She always arrived at 7:00 a.m. on the dot. Rain or shine. Worry or war. Never late.
I opened the door. She stood there—shoulders squared, scarf wrapped tightly around her head, a tote bag slung over one arm. In one hand, a basket of fruits. In the other, her ever-present smile.
"Still punctual as ever," I teased, stepping aside.
She chuckled, a low, warm sound that always made the house feel less heavy.
"Old habits die hard."
She entered with the ease of someone who belonged. "How's our queen today?"
And though we never expected an answer, we'd grown used to talking to her—believing, somehow, she heard us.
Maria settled in beside her, already peeling an orange. She had always been more than just a caregiver.
When my father died and the staff vanished like smoke, she stayed. When things got worse, she stayed.
And when I thought no one else would show up—Maria did.
I kissed Mum's forehead, whispered a promise I couldn't afford to break, then turned to Maria.
"Call me if anything changes."
Maria met my gaze with the quiet steadiness she always carried, her hands still peeling the orange with slow precision.
"I will," she said gently, but her eyes said more. They said go. They said we've got her. They said don't break down here.
I lingered a second longer than I needed to, my hand still resting lightly on mum's blanket. The steady rise and fall of her chest was the only confirmation I had that she was still with me. Still trying. Still fighting in the silence.
"I'll be back early," I murmured, not sure who I was trying to convince—her, Maria, or myself.
Maria nodded again, her voice soft but firm. "Go, Haley. She's in good hands."
I stepped back slowly, almost unwillingly, taking one last glance at the only two people who made this place feel like home. The weight in my chest didn't lighten—it just shifted.
Now dressed in a crisp white blouse tucked into black pants that hugged my waist, I slipped on a navy-blue blazer. Simple. Decent. Respectable—enough not to stand out, but enough not to be forgotten. I pulled my hair into a low bun and stepped into flats. Comfortable. Nothing fancy. Just a woman going to work.
The city buzzed around me, but I kept my eyes forward. My palms were sweaty as I clutched the neatly folded slip the woman on the phone had told me to bring.
The building towered over me—glass and steel, clean and cold. The kind of place I used to dream about walking into with a briefcase, not a bucket.
Inside, the front desk gleamed. So did the woman behind it.
She was flawless—skin like velvet, nails manicured to perfection. Her eyes flicked over me like I was invisible.
I cleared my throat and handed her the slip.
"Haley Palmer," I said. "I was told to ask for a Mr. Leonard."
She barely nodded, picked up the phone and murmured something, then looked back at me.
"Top floor. Elevator to your right."
Top floor?
I swallowed hard and headed toward the elevator.
It was empty—until the doors opened on the third floor.
A man stepped in. Black suit. No tie. Polished shoes. He glanced at me, nodded once, then stared straight ahead.
I tried to shrink into the corner.
"You're the new girl?" he asked, without looking.
I hesitated. "Yes."
"I'm Mr. Leonard. Follow me."
He didn't wait for a reply. I trailed behind him down a wide hallway. He pushed open a door to a spotless changing room.
"You'll start with the executive room. Meeting at ten. You've got forty minutes."
I changed quickly into the simple black uniform that hung stiff on my body. The fabric itched slightly against my skin—too new, too foreign—but I tugged it into place, smoothing the creases like it mattered. Like this uniform was a second skin I had to get used to, even if it didn't feel like mine.
I tied my hair back tighter, tucked in the last strand, then turned to the cart.
Everything was arranged in neat compartments—glass cleaner, disinfectant, microfiber cloths folded into perfect squares. The mop stood tall and indifferent, waiting for command.
I wrapped my fingers around the cold steel handle. It felt heavier than it should.
One by one, I touched each item. Not out of curiosity, but out of necessity. I had to know what I was holding. What I was becoming.
The gloves. The wipes. The scent of lemon and bleach rising from the bottles.
I swallowed down the knot in my throat. This wasn't failure.
This was survival.
Tools of survival now. Not tools of shame.
I repeated that to myself like a chant.
The executive room was massive—glass walls, twelve-seater table, a sleek screen on one end, and chairs that looked more expensive than my entire month's rent.
I stared.
This could've been my life. A briefcase, not a mop. A laptop, not a bucket. My name printed in black ink on a meeting memo.
But life mocks you in the quietest ways.
I bent down and scrubbed, even though the floor was already spotless.
By the time I finished, sweat coated my neck and my arms ached. But something told me to take one last look. One last gaze at the version of me that didn't make it.
Then I remembered—slacking wasn't an option.
I picked up the bucket, turned to leave, and—bam!
I collided with a body. A suit. A coffee cup.
Hot liquid splashed. My eyes went wide.
"I'm so sor—" I started.
But the man didn't stop. He just walked past like I didn't exist. No glance. No sigh. His suit was stained, and he didn't even care.
Then came the voice.
"What on earth just happened here?"
A woman—elegant, tall, furious. Her heels clicked like a warning bell.
"Who allowed you up here? Are you new?"
"Yes, ma'am," I stammered, wiping my palms on my uniform. "I— I didn't see him coming. It won't happen again, I promise."
"No, it won't," she snapped, her voice like ice. "You're dismissed."
I didn't argue. I turned and walked away, skin peeled open under her stare.
The changing room was silent. I shut the door behind me and sat. Not crying. Just breathing.
Deep breaths. Small victories.
I made it through the day.
I changed back into my clothes, ready to go home—to Mum. That's when I heard voices.
"Girl, you worked the top floor on your first day?"
Two women—around my age. One with wine-red braids, the other with lashes long enough to sweep the floor.
"I'm Claire," said the one with the braids. "And this is Catherine."
I smiled. "Haley."
They looked me over like I was a puzzle piece dropped in the wrong box.
"You got lucky," Catherine said. "It's hard to get placed there. We've been here six months and never touched that floor."
They were already changing out of their uniforms and into short, glittery outfits.
"We bartend at night," Claire added, slicking gloss over her lips. "This job barely covers anything."
Catherine nodded. "But hey—at least you didn't cry. That's a win on your first day."
I smiled faintly.
Maybe it was.