My days followed a strict pattern: work at the office from nine to six, then home to prepare dinner, sometimes take calls from my boss into the night.
She came every weekday morning and afternoon, tidying the apartment in my absence, handling the chores I had no time for.
I barely knew her real name, just how she managed to keep things running unnoticed.
I was grateful but awkward about her presence, never fully relaxed.
There was a clear, unspoken hierarchy between us.
She listened quietly when I gave instructions, never argued, but I sensed she held her social distance firmly.
There were moments when I tried to make small talk, only to be met with polite smiles that didn’t reach her eyes.
She didn’t complain, but I caught the way she avoided my gaze sometimes, as if to remind me without words who held the power here.
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