That I existed to clean what they broke.
That quiet work proved a lack of power.
That service belonged to people who mattered less.
They were wrong.
There was never shame in washing a plate.
The shame belonged to those who used ordinary work to measure human worth.
A little girl entered the kitchen carrying a cup.
Her mother was staying at the center after discovering her husband had opened several credit cards in her name.
“Where does this go?” the child asked.
I pointed toward the counter.
“Right there is perfect.”
She placed it carefully beside the sink.
My father watched her leave.
“Your grandfather would never have imagined the mansion becoming this.”
“Would he approve?”
“Eventually.”
I laughed.
That was probably true.
The front doors closed after the final family left.
I dried my hands and walked through the former dining room.
The expensive paintings were gone.
Children’s drawings covered one wall.
