For over forty years, I moved through life like a ghost. My name is Martha, and I was a janitor—the invisible hands that scrubbed floors, wiped counters, and erased traces of thousands of strangers, all while the world passed me by. Most people see night shifts as lonely or sad. I never did. My work was honest, and it built a foundation for my three children—Diana, Carly, and Ben—to climb into lives far grander than mine.
They grew up, moved out, and, over time, they grew away. The holidays became perfunctory, scripted affairs. Flight schedules, recitals, in-laws—they all left no room for a mother who smelled of floor wax. I had become a relic of the past, a shadow my children preferred to ignore.
Then, one Tuesday morning, life changed in an instant. At a rest stop along I-87, I was mopping near the sinks when I heard a thin, desperate cry. Behind a trash bin, I found a newborn baby boy, wrapped in a stained blanket, with a frantic note: “I couldn’t do it. Please keep him safe.”
In that moment, the sterile bathroom became a sanctuary. I held him close, my uniform rough against his fragile body. A trucker named Tim helped me keep him warm while dialing 911. I whispered promises into his tiny ears: you are safe now.
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