“Can I help you?” I asked, setting down the broom.
Her voice was barely a whisper. “My son’s wedding is in a few hours,” she said. “I… I don’t want to embarrass him.”
I didn’t ask questions. I just led her to a chair, placed my hand gently on her shoulder, and said, “Let’s make you feel like a queen today.”
Up close, I could see the toll life had taken on her — lines etched deep from worry, hair dulled by time, hands that told the story of decades spent working too hard. Her name, I would soon learn, was Mirela.Continue reading…
