I stopped expecting to be seen a long time ago.
My name is Martha. I’m sixty-three years old, and for more than forty years, I’ve worked nights—quiet hours spent scrubbing bathrooms, wiping fingerprints off mirrors, and mopping floors under flickering fluorescent lights. Office buildings. Highway rest stops. Places people pass through without a second thought.
Some folks say that kind of life is lonely.
I never argued with them.
But I never agreed either.
Because honest work has its own dignity. And when the world finally sleeps, the silence gives you room to breathe.
Still… when you give your body, your time, and your youth to raise children, you secretly hope for small things. A visit. A phone call. A birthday card with crooked handwriting from a grandchild.
Mine stopped coming.
I have three children—Diana, Carly, and Ben. All grown. All successful. College diplomas framed on walls I’ve never stood in front of. They have partners, children of their own, kitchens with stone counters, and refrigerators that hold more wine than food.
