For eight years, I cleaned the same woman’s house every Thursday. Then, just before she moved away, she asked me to come back one final time.

But she gave me one unusual instruction.

“Don’t bring your cleaning supplies.”

I assumed she probably wanted to give me a few things she no longer planned to take with her.

Maybe some dishes.

Clothes.

A lamp.

A box of household items.

I even cleared space in the back seat of my car.

After eight years inside Mrs. Whitaker’s home, I knew almost every detail of it.

I knew which kitchen drawer always stuck.

Which towels were meant for guests.

Where every framed photograph belonged after I dusted the piano.