When I took the new cleaning contract, I didn’t think much of it. It was just another luxury client for my growing company—until I saw the name. Diane. My aunt. The woman who stole everything from me twenty years ago and disappeared without a trace.
When I was three, my parents died in a car crash. Everything they owned—their house, savings, and life insurance—was left in my name. My aunt Diane showed up at the funeral dressed in pearls and pity, promising everyone she’d take care of me. For a while, she did. She moved into my parents’ home, redecorated everything, and called herself my “only family.”
Then, one morning, she took all the money, sold the house, and dropped me off at a foster home. No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone.
I grew up believing I was unlovable. By sixteen, I was cleaning houses after school. By eighteen, I was scrubbing office floors at night. By twenty-three, I had started my own cleaning business—PureSpace Services. Six employees, two vans, and a reputation for flawless work. I built my life from what she destroyed.
It had been years since I thought of Diane—until that morning in my office. I was scrolling through new client requests when her name popped up. “3,500 sq. ft. property. Weekly maintenance. Cash payment. Owner requires discretion.” And there it was—Diane’s full name, along with an address not far from where my parents’ house once stood.
I could’ve declined. I should have. But something inside me refused to let the past stay buried. I typed back before I could talk myself out of it: “Accepted. I’ll handle this personally.”
Three days later, I parked in front of a grand colonial house. When the door opened, there she was—pearls, perfume, and the same cold eyes. “Yes?” she asked curtly.
“Good morning, ma’am,” I said evenly. “I’m from PureSpace Cleaning.”
She looked me over, unimpressed. “Well, I hope you’re better than the last girl. Come in.”
The house was spotless but soulless—every corner gleaming, every surface polished. Still, it felt empty. “Start upstairs,” she ordered. “And don’t touch my jewelry box.”
Week after week, I returned. She never recognized me. Never thanked me. But she loved to talk—mostly about herself. Charity events, luncheons, the mayor’s wife. Every conversation was another brick in the wall of her vanity.
Then one afternoon, as I dusted behind her vanity, she sighed dramatically. “I had a niece once,” she said. “My sister’s daughter. Poor thing. I tried to raise her, but she was impossible. Ungrateful. Some people just don’t appreciate sacrifice.”
I kept my face blank. “That must’ve been hard,” I murmured.
“It was,” she said, swirling her wine. “She disappeared, thank God.”
Each visit made it harder to keep calm. Every word out of her mouth was another lie layered over my childhood. But I waited. Patiently.
A week later, she was preparing for a big luncheon—her “charity” event. As I cleaned, I overheard her bragging to guests. “My husband and I worked hard for everything we have,” she said sweetly.
