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My husband earns well, so we live in a bright, airy apartment overlooking the city. Twice a week, a cleaner comes by—a quiet, polite woman who moves through our home like a soft breeze, barely noticeable. She dusts every corner, folds laundry with careful precision, and never says more than a gentle “Good morning.”
To me, she was just part of the routine. Someone who arrived, cleaned, and left.
Then yesterday, completely by accident, I stumbled onto her social media page.
And suddenly, the woman who scrubbed my countertops and sorted our towels was someone I didn’t recognize—someone alive and vibrant. Her feed was a gallery of color and emotion. Paintings bursting with sunlight, poetry written in delicate, aching lines, photos of tiny coastal towns where she’d captured fishermen laughing and old women braiding flowers into their hair.
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