I took a job as a maid in a mansion just to save my mom’s life. But the day the owner looked at my shoulder, everything shifted, and I had no idea what I’d just stepped into. Mom and I always lived modestly.
Well, if you could call it that. Sometimes our fridge was so empty, I couldn’t help but joke: “Hey, maybe there’s a portal to another life in there?”
Mom laughed, but her eyes always grew heavy. She’d worked at a sewing factory all her life until her health gave out.
All the doctors said the same,
So, I started hunting for a second job. Then a third. But let’s be honest — no one survives on what night-shift cashiers make.
One evening, I stumbled on an ad:
“Housemaid needed. Private estate. High salary.
Room and board included.”
The salary was so high, I blinked twice just to be sure it wasn’t a typo.
Mom nearly choked on her tea when I showed her the listing.
“You’ve lost your mind. You want to go work in some rich people’s mansion?!”
I closed the ad like someone might steal it from me.
“That salary equals three months at the supermarket. We don’t have time.”
She didn’t answer, just coughed, deep and ragged. The kind that echoed for too long in the lungs.
That sound haunted me all night. By morning, I’d packed. Before leaving, I paid a sitter and hugged Mom.
“She doesn’t let me eat anchovies.”
“Mom, salt is the white death.”
“And anchovies are my last romance. Don’t take it from me while I still have teeth.”
“I’ll call you, okay?”
“Unless they sell your organs first.”
“And what do you think it’ll be like? Living in a palace?”
“I have no idea.
But if he’s paying that much… Maybe he’s trying to buy a clean conscience.”
“I once knew someone like that. A millionaire with a conscience — a rare species.”
An hour later, the cab driver pulled up to the gates of the mansion. I was greeted by a tall blonde in a cashmere sweater.
For a moment, her eyes lingered on my face. Then flicked briefly to the sleeve of my shirt. Not curiosity. Almost… recognition?
But it vanished just as quickly. ***
In the first days of work, I felt like my hands had turned into a universal tool: scrubbing, chopping, wiping, sweeping, and polishing. There was a lot to do.
The mansion was enormous, with wide surfaces and mirrors everywhere. And honestly, it looked like no one had cleaned it in months. But what rattled me the most wasn’t the work.
It was Yve. The daughter of the owner. She moved like a cat, but her voice, sharp and cold as a machete, always struck first.
“The kitchen’s dirty again. Do you want to lose this job?”
I flinched, even though I had cleaned it ten minutes ago. But she was already waving her hand dismissively.
“No excuses. This isn’t a cheap hostel.”
I scrubbed marble windowsills, polished countertops until they shone, and at night I dreamed about surfaces I’d missed. I knew why I was doing all this.
On the evening of the second day, the owner finally came down for dinner. I was about to quietly slip away when a voice made me stop in my tracks:
I turned and saw him for the first time. Miles.
An older gentleman with a silver beard, wearing a linen suit. He looked nothing like his daughter. “Rosemary potatoes and baked mackerel, sir,” I said, feeling a bit shy.
“No ‘sir.’ Just Miles. And thank you, Miss…?”
At that moment, Yve swooped in like a hawk that had spotted prey. “She still has to clean the kitchen!”
“That’s enough, Yve.
She’s worked all day. We’ll clean up ourselves.”
As I was passing Miles, I twisted my ankle slightly. Maybe not full drama, but enough to let out a noticeable “ow.”
“Oh dear,” Yve smirked with delight.
What happened next changed everything…
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