She looked down at it.
But instead of taking it, she gently folded my fingers back around the key.
“Not yet.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“Come back Saturday at eleven.”
I immediately assumed she needed help after the movers finished.
“Do you want me to clean once everything is gone?”
“No.”
She paused.
“And leave your cleaning supplies at home.”
I must have looked completely confused.
Mrs. Whitaker smiled.
“I’m asking you to visit me, Carly.”
Visit.
Not work.
I couldn’t remember ever hearing her say that before.
So on Saturday morning, I put on a pair of jeans without bleach marks and a blouse I normally saved for Willa’s school events.
I even stopped to buy cookies because showing up empty-handed somehow felt wrong.
When I reached the house, most of the furniture was gone.
Boxes lined the hallway.
The empty rooms echoed.
But Mrs. Whitaker had deliberately left the kitchen table and two chairs.
There were sandwiches waiting for us.
On real plates.
“Sit down,” she said.
I hesitated.
Then she smiled.
“I know you usually eat lunch in your car.”
I stopped.
I hadn’t realized she knew that.
Slowly, I sat across from her.
For the next half hour, we talked.
Not as employer and cleaner.
Just as two people.
She told me about the apartment she was moving into near her daughter.
She asked about Willa’s senior year.
She remembered which colleges my daughter was considering.
She even remembered that Willa wanted to study nursing.
That affected me more than I expected.
When we finished eating, habit took over.
I stood and started stacking the plates.
Mrs. Whitaker immediately reached across the table and placed her hand over mine.
“Leave them.”
I looked at her.
For eight years, I had never left dirty dishes sitting on that table.
Then she stood.
“There’s something I want to show you.”
Her voice sounded different now.
More serious.
She walked into the hallway and motioned for me to follow.
I expected another box.
