For fifteen years, Rosa had cleaned my mansion so quietly she almost became invisible. She cooked my meals. Polished the marble floors. Watered the plants. Pretended not to hear me crying in my office after midnight.
One rainy morning, shame finally forced me to speak.
“Rosa,” I said, staring into cold coffee, “I can’t keep paying you.”
She set the breakfast tray down carefully.
“You should leave before they take this place too,” I continued bitterly. “I already owe you months of salary.”
Rosa looked at me with a sadness so deep it almost angered me.
“I know where I belong, Mr. Calloway.”
I laughed without humor. “Here? With a ruined old man?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Especially here.”
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