The first time Mrs. Whitaker called me, I was standing in a grocery store parking lot in the rain, crying into a bag of frozen peas. I had only forty-one dollars in my checking account, my nine-year-old daughter Willa was waiting in the car, and my husband had moved out three weeks earlier. To make things worse, he had taken the good vacuum cleaner even though he knew I was trying to start a cleaning business. That afternoon, I had placed handwritten ads around town offering house-cleaning services.

My phone rang while I was loading groceries into the car. An older woman introduced herself as Margaret Whitaker and said she had seen my ad at the library. She needed someone to clean her four-bedroom house once a week and asked if I was available on Thursdays. I tried to sound professional, even though I desperately needed the work. Before hanging 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.. CONTINUE READING