Thursday is my morning off.

The kids walk to the bus stop by themselves, like they have been doing since yesterday. I’m sure Janice is traumatized when the two of them show up all alone, but I’m not too worried about it. I do watch them from one of the windows in the front of the house (which now has blinds—thank you, Enzo), and I watch the bus collect them and carry them away to school.

They’re fine. Motherhood is a state of constant low-grade worrying, but I refuse to be the type of woman who puts her child on a leash. At some point, you have to let go even if it drives you nuts.

Once they’re gone, the house is so quiet. Ada generally keeps to herself, but Nico is always a whirlwind of activity. When he’s not home, the house seems deathly still. It was quiet back when we were in a small apartment, but now that we are in a larger house (albeit cozy), it’s so much more quiet. I think our house has echoes. Echoes.

I don’t know what to do with myself. Maybe I’ll make myself some breakfast and read a book.

I walk over to the kitchen and pull out a carton of eggs. As I get older, I’ve been trying to eat healthy, and I’ve heard eggs are pretty healthy if you don’t fry them in oil or butter. (Which seems patently unfair, because that’s what makes them taste the best.) So I’ve started the water boiling for my oil/butter-free egg when the doorbell rings.

I hurry over to the front door and fling it open without checking who is out there, because that’s the sort of neighborhood I live in now.

Back when we lived in the Bronx, I never opened the front door without checking who was waiting on the other side. If it was someone I didn’t recognize, I demanded ID to be held up to the peephole. But this neighborhood is so safe. I don’t have to worry about anything anymore.

But I am extremely surprised to see Martha—Suzette’s cleaning woman—on the other side of the door, clothed in one of her flowered print dresses paired with a crisp white apron, a pair of rubber gloves in one hand and some sort of advanced mop in the other.

“Hello,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say.

Martha stares at me with that same penetrating gaze, her broad face a mask. “It is Thursday. I am here to clean.”

What? I remember her mentioning that she was free on Thursdays, but I don’t remember agreeing to let her come. In fact, I distinctly remember trying to come up with a nice way of telling her we weren’t interested before I got distracted by Suzette insulting my pie. Would she just show up here without having confirmed the plans?

Did Suzette put her up to this?

“Um,” I say. “I I appreciate you coming and all, but as I was saying the other night, we really don’t have ”

Martha does not budge. She’s not getting the message.

“Look,” I say, “we don’t I mean, I can clean the house myself. You don’t need to—”

“Your husband told me to come,” Martha interrupts me. What? “He he did?”

She nods almost imperceptibly. “He called me.” “Um,” I say again. “Excuse me for one second.”

Enzo has a late start today, so he’s sleeping in this morning. But I sprint up the stairs, and when I see him lying on his side of the bed, I give his shoulder a shake. His eyelashes flutter but he doesn’t open his eyes. I shake him more violently this time, and he finally looks up at me sleepily.

“Millie?” he murmurs.

“Enzo,” I say, “did you call that cleaning woman Suzette recommended?”

He sits up slowly in bed, rubbing his eyes. There have been mornings when I have seen him be instantly alert and leap out of bed,

immediately at attention. But I haven’t seen him do that in a long time. Maybe not even since the kids were born. These days, it’s a five-minute process to get him coherent enough for a conversation.

“Yes,” he finally says. “I called her.”

“Why would you do that? We can’t afford a cleaning woman! I can do it myself.”

He yawns. “Is okay. Not that expensive.” “Enzo ”

He takes another few seconds to wake himself up fully. He swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Millie, you are always cleaning for people. Ever since I know you. So this time, someone cleans for you.”

I wring my hands together. “But—”

“No but,” he says. “She will only come twice a month. Not that much money. Also, Nico is going to empty the trash now, and Ada will do the dishes. I talked to them.”

I start to protest again, but actually, it would be nice not to have to clean for a change. He’s right—it’s something I have always done. I went right from cleaning other people’s houses to cleaning up after my children. Not that Enzo doesn’t ever help, but cleaning a house of four people is a big job.

“Not that much money,” he says again. “You deserve this.”

Maybe I do. Maybe I do deserve it. And anyway, his mind seems made up, so I’m not going to argue.

Except why does it have to be Martha?

I return to the living room, where Martha has efficiently located our cleaning supplies and put herself to work. Okay, she does have a bit of an issue with staring at me, but plenty of people are socially awkward, and she seems to be an incredibly competent cleaning woman. Most families I worked for had endless instructions on how they wanted everything done, but I vowed if I ever could afford that kind of help, I wouldn’t be so obnoxious.

“Enzo says it’s okay,” I report back to her.

She gives me a crisp nod. The woman hardly ever talks. She reminds me a bit of those guards for the royal palace in England who can’t talk or smile.

I attempt to make my egg in the kitchen, but it’s hard to cook with Martha right next to me, efficiently scrubbing our countertop while also glancing up at me every few seconds. Even though our kitchen is much larger than the one we had back in the city, it’s weird to be here while she is cleaning. It feels awkward, like I’m some sort of fancy, rich person who employs servants, which is funny considering well, we can barely even afford this house, even at ten percent below asking. This house that possibly used to be occupied by barn animals. (Although I don’t actually believe that. I mean, I’m pretty sure.)

I awkwardly step aside so Martha can get her work done. “Excuse me,” I mumble.

Most people I worked for used to leave the house when I was cleaning, and I appreciated that. Even if the employer was not actively telling me how to clean, which some of them did, I always felt like they were silently judging me when they were in the house. Or watching me to make sure I wasn’t stealing anything. And even if they weren’t doing either of those things, they were simply in the way.

Finally, I give up on the egg. I grab a banana instead, because it’s the only breakfast I can think of that doesn’t involve cooking. I carry my slightly brown banana out to the living room and plop down on the sofa with my phone in my other hand.

Maybe I can take Wednesday mornings off instead.

I sort through my emails, dealing with what I can. The kids have been at their new school for less than a week, and already, I’ve got dozens of emails from the school. The principal seems compelled to write to all the parents daily. That is a stark difference between this school and the previous public elementary school in the Bronx. We may not be paying tuition here, but the parents expect a lot. Daily emails, apparently.

I end up deleting almost all the emails from the school. I mean, how many messages can you read about the upcoming book fair or something called Lego Lunch?

The banana isn’t terribly satisfying, but it does the job. I figure I’ll go get some errands done outside the house while Martha is cleaning. Except when I get off the sofa and turn around, I almost jump out of my skin.

Martha is standing rigidly at the entrance to the kitchen.

She is so still. She almost looks like a robot standing there—or is “cyborg” the correct terminology? Either way, it startled me. I thought she was busy cleaning in the kitchen, but apparently she’s been standing there and staring at me for God knows how long. And when I catch her doing it, she doesn’t look away. She is unapologetically staring at me.

“Yes?” I say.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” she says. “Um, it’s fine. What do you need?”

She hesitates for a few seconds, as if carefully measuring her words.

Finally, she blurts out, “Where is your oven cleaner?”

Is that why she was looking at me so intently? She was just confused about the location of the oven cleaner? Is that really all it was?

“It’s in the cabinet right by the stove.” Where else would it be?

Martha nods at my answer and returns to the kitchen. But I still feel a little uneasy. Even if Enzo wants us to have a cleaning woman, that doesn’t mean it has to be Martha. I’d rather not have a cleaner who won’t quit staring at me. But on the other hand, she’s already working here. If we find someone else, I’ll have to fire her. I have never fired anyone in my life, and I’m not looking forward to it.

Maybe this will be fine. After all, she knows where the oven cleaner is now, and according to Enzo, her rates are very reasonable. Suzette’s house is spotless, so she’s obviously good at what she does.

And like Enzo said, I deserve this.