text: No disrespect to all the cleaners out there, but house cleaning wasn’t exactly my intended career path. Hey, life happens. It paid the bills while I got back on my feet. Most of my clients forgot my name. I was just the Merrie Maid girl to them, basically invisible. I exacted revenge by giving them all nicknames in my mind and fantasizing about their reactions if I were ever to write a book about all their quirks. For example, there was Ms. Hoarder. She had only accepted cleaning services out of fear of her daughter who had threatened her with Social Services. She followed me from room to room as I threaded my way through tottering stacks of clutter, fumblingly snatching back anything I tried to throw out. The Poopsters were a nice old couple, but they had a couple of yappy, incontinent little dogs. I learned early to look where I was stepping and to wear my heavy-duty rubber gloves in their place. Ms. Party Girl left spilled wine stains and cigarette ash all over the place. I was always surprised that the house hadn’t burned down since my last visit. Then there were the Glossies. The same wedding picture that had been in the glossy society magazine I had browsed through in my dentist’s waiting room was hanging framed on the wall of their elegant home. They were tall, slender and confident, with sparkling white teeth. The dentist probably approved. If the article hadn't contained their personal details, I’d have thought the picture was staged. It all looked too good to be true. With hindsight, I wish I could say I had been prescient, but at that moment I was just plain jealous. He was standing behind her, arms clasped around her waist as she gazed adoringly up at him. Her hand rested delicately on his to show off a diamond as big as a walnut. Okay, I’m exaggerating, slightly. The blurb had gone on about how they had met, their degrees and careers and how they were soulmates. She was a lawyer, and he was a financial consultant. It described seed pearls and lace in excruciating detail. My marriage had turned out to be even cheaper than my wedding and had barely lasted six months. At least my mother was so thrilled with her granddaughter that she had stopped saying “I told you so” about my ex more than once a week. Since we were living in her basement apartment, I had learned to bite my tongue. I couldn’t disagree with a word she said about him anyway. “Hope you have better luck than I did, sister,” I said to the bride in the wedding portrait as I dusted it. I forgave them their good fortune. The sleek, modern design of the house, with its cathedral ceilings and hardwood floors, made cleaning easy and I had learned to appreciate the little things. They were polite on the few occasions that we crossed paths, more than I could say about some of my other clients. Their life seemed to be idyllic. I couldn’t hate anyone for that. I smiled knowingly at the messy tangle of sheets in the king size bed and empty wine glasses on the bedside tables. There were loving little notes in the waste basket and roses on the dining table. What, you didn’t think I would read them? Give me a break, and shred your papers . And yet, there were clouds on the horizon. Sometimes there were only one person’s plates in the dishwasher. One side of the bed was immaculately made, while the guest bed had been used. Gorgeous flowers and sweetly worded cards appeared after these episodes. I gave Mr. Glossy full points for classy apologies until I found the most recent bouquet shredded in the trash along with the shards of the vase. Now I understood how the hallway mirror got broken. That one apparently didn't go according to plan. That day I was dusting his office when I retrieved some papers that had fallen between the desk and the wall. They were letters from collection agencies. I recognized those from my own experience, but the amounts on these made me open my eyes wide. Romantic, considerate Mr. Glossy was in deep financial trouble. I wondered if Mrs. Glossy knew. It might explain the vase throwing. Yet it didn’t seem to make a difference to their standard of living. The wine cabinet remained full and there were exotic travel brochures scattered on the coffee table. I pored over them wistfully before I stacked them neatly in the magazine rack. “I’m sorry,” I said to her photograph. “I know what it’s like to have your Dr Jekyll turn out to be a Mr. Hyde. Mine wasn’t as good looking and he didn’t have any money to lose, but I know what it’s like to fall for a jerk.” I wondered what would happen if I tried to warn her. I hardly ever saw her in person. There was the slight matter of client confidentiality. And finally, I was the house cleaner. There was no earthly reason she’d believe anything I told her. If I left the statements where she’d find them, he would know who had moved them. I put the papers back where I found them and kept my mouth shut. On my next visit, I noticed that most of the clothes and a suitcase were gone from her side of the walk-in closet. We wore the same size. I admit I sometimes took items of her beautiful designer clothes out to admire them, though I never tried them on. Hey, I’m human. If you’d had to wear a Merrie Maid smock, you’d have done the same. I thought of the travel brochures and hoped she was relaxing on a beach somewhere, sipping a tall drink with a little umbrella in it. I headed to the main bathroom, gloves on, basket of cleaning supplies at the ready, when Mr. Glossy suddenly appeared, scaring me half to death. He seemed equally startled. “Good morning, er, um, Ms., Ms...yes, Ms. Merrie.” I told you they never remembered my name. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You don’t have to worry about cleaning the bathroom. We had a slight mishap last night before my wife left on her business trip. The toilet overflowed. What a mess! It took forever to clean up. I don't know how you do that all day long. Anyway, long story short, I bought new mats and it’s all fine now.” He’d never uttered more than a passing greeting before. Since he was almost blocking the doorway, I could not enter, but I could see that there were indeed new mats on the bathroom floor. “In fact,” he continued, “I’ll be joining her in a day or two, so there’s really no need to worry about the rest of the house. Here, this is for your trouble. I’ll call the office when we’re ready for you to come back.” He rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a roll of notes, peeled off several and handed them to me. It was almost a week’s wages. I just managed to thank him before he hustled me downstairs. I found myself, cleaning supplies and all, outside on the front porch, still wearing my gloves, as the door shut behind me. Something didn’t feel right, but it wasn’t a crime to behave oddly. Maybe she’d left him, and he didn’t want to admit it. I told the office that they’d put services on hold for now. Somehow, I forgot to mention my tip. About a week later, I was relaxing at home, playing with my baby, half listening as my mother prattled on in the kitchen. She had the television tuned to the local news. I glanced up and did a double take as I saw Mr. and Mrs. Glossy’s familiar wedding photograph. The view switched to a teary eyed Mr. Glossy standing outside the house. “Please come home, honey,” he intoned, gazing into the camera with tearful sincerity. “I miss you so much. It doesn’t matter what’s going on. We can deal with it together.” He turned to weep on the shoulder of a distressed looking older woman. Judging from the likeness, she was Mrs. Glossy’s mother. The camera cut back to the reporter. “Anyone with information is requested to call...” I was already on my feet, scrabbling for pen and paper. “Mrs. Glossy, you’d better believe I’m going to call. I’m on your side, sister.”