She twisted her hands together, eyes glistening with what looked like tears. “Ma’am, please… I really need this job. I can handle everything. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, ironing… even sewing. I don’t mind sleeping in the storage room if necessary. I just need somewhere to stay.”
I clenched my jaw. Every trembling word felt rehearsed.
“Leave,” I said coldly. “Before I lose my patience.”
She flinched. “Please… just give me one chance. I’ll prove myself.”
Before I could respond, she hurried forward, grabbing a spray bottle and cloth. “See? I’m very thorough. Look how clean I can make everything.”
She wiped the table too forcefully, movements rushed and desperate. Then she turned toward the shelf where my mother’s porcelain urn rested — a delicate piece, white with gold accents, the most precious thing I owned.
My chest tightened. “Don’t touch that—”
“I’ll clean everything properly,” she insisted, dusting around it. “I’m careful, Ma’am. I promise—”
Her elbow knocked against it.
The urn wobbled.
Time seemed to slow.
“Candela, stop—!”
Too late.
The urn tipped.
It fell.
Porcelain shattered against the marble floor.
Pieces scattered in every direction.