up, she quietly noticed that I had been crying, but she didn’t ask questions or pity me. She simply gave me her address and told me to come the next morning.
Her house on Linden Street was enormous and beautiful, with white columns, a blue front door, an old oak tree, and rooms that seemed much bigger than anything I was used to. Mrs. Whitaker was around seventy, with short white hair, reading glasses, and a serious manner. She explained that she and her late husband had bought the house in 1971 and raised their daughter there. Her husband had died two years earlier, and although the house was now too large for one person, she refused to..
In the kitchen, Mrs. Whitaker offered me one hundred dollars a week to clean every Thursday from nine until two. She also handed me a key to the house. I was
