The staff exchanged nervous glances. No one had endured this long.
One rainy morning, Naomi passed a hallway mirror and froze. Behind her reflection sat Rose—barefoot on the marble floor, mascara streaked, silk scarf slipping from her hair. She didn’t look like a queen. She looked broken.
Naomi hesitated, then quietly placed a folded towel beside her and turned to leave.
“Wait,” Rose whispered, voice cracking. “Why do you stay?”
Naomi turned, calm but firm. “Because I need to. For my daughter. She’s sick, and this job pays for her treatment.”
Rose’s lips trembled. “You’re not afraid of me?”
Naomi shook her head. “I used to be afraid of life. But when you sit in a hospital holding your child’s hand, nothing else can break you.”
For the first time, Rose was silent. She didn’t see a servant anymore. She saw a woman carrying scars as heavy as her own.
