The alarm clock screamed, and so did my soul. My name’s Paula, professional cleaner and full-time fighter of bad luck.
Since my husband Mike’s accident, life had been a nonstop obstacle course. My 12-year-old son Adam was my only sunshine—and the reason I scrubbed floors like a gladiator in battle.
One day, Adam got invited to the birthday party of Simon — the boss’s rich kid. Warning bells rang louder than my vacuum cleaner, but hope in a child’s eyes is impossible to deny.
We thrifted a shirt, ironed it with military precision, and off he went, shining brighter than a new penny… into a mansion big enough to have its own climate.
Hours later, I picked up a very different boy: red-eyed, crushed, and silent. Turns out, they made him the joke — dressing him as a janitor, handing him a mop, and mocking him for being “born ready” to clean their toilets.
Cue Mama Bear mode.
I marched back to the mansion, flame emoji in human form, and told Simon’s dad exactly where he could shove his silver spoon. He fired me on the spot.
Plot twist: the whole company revolted. Staff threatened to walk out unless I was reinstated with an apology.
Spoiler: They apologized. Big time.
Moral of the story?
You can mock a cleaner — but if you’re not careful, she’ll end up mopping the floor with your reputation.
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