I cleaned offices in the mornings and spent afternoons doing housekeeping for private homes around Raleigh and Cary.
Everett’s house was one of them.
I had worked for him for nearly two years.
He knew I was struggling.
One afternoon, he found me quietly crying while dusting a framed photograph of his late wife.
Instead of pretending not to notice, he made coffee and asked what was wrong.
For some reason, I told him everything.
A week later, he proposed the arrangement.
Separate bedrooms.
No romantic expectations.
He would pay for Brielle’s medical care, education, and our living expenses.
After three years, he would transfer a modest townhouse into my name and give us enough money to start independently.
“Why me?” I asked.
