Cleaning lady

Joyce stared at herself in the mirror, disbelief and frustration etched on her face. The uniform she held in her trembling hands was not what she had expected when she applied for the cleaning job advertised in the local paper. Instead of a practical outfit suitable for scrubbing floors and wiping windows, she was presented with what could only be described as a French maid costume straight out of a risqué Halloween catalog.

It was more suitable for a burlesque show than cleaning houses.

Desperation gnawed at her. She and her husband, Mark, had been struggling to make ends meet ever since he lost his job at the factory. They had fallen behind on their mortgage payments, and foreclosure loomed ominously over their heads. Joyce had applied for countless jobs, but the cleaning position was the first one to offer her a chance.

She sighed heavily, torn between her dignity and the pressing need to keep their home. Reluctantly, she began to change into the outfit, feeling a mix of embarrassment and indignation with each piece she put on. The corset cinched tightly around her waist, pushing her breasts up unnaturally. She tried to ignore the discomfort and focus on the fact that this job could save them from losing everything.

As she fastened the stockings and slipped into the heels, Joyce prayed that her husband wouldn't come home before she left. She couldn't bear for him to see her like this, objectified and reduced to a caricature of a maid. Mark had always been supportive, but she knew he would be devastated to see her in such a demeaning role.

With a deep breath, Joyce collected her cleaning supplies—a feather duster, a mop, and a bucket—and left their small apartment. The address she had been given was in an upscale neighborhood, where the houses were large and impeccably maintained. She felt even more out of place in her provocative attire.

When she arrived at the house, a grand mansion with manicured lawns and a sweeping driveway, Joyce hesitated before ringing the doorbell. She wondered if she could go through with this, if she could swallow her pride for the sake of their future. The door swung open before she could make up her mind.

A middle-aged woman with perfectly coiffed hair and a discerning gaze greeted her. "You must be Joyce," she said with a hint of condescension, eyeing the costume with thinly veiled disdain. "Come in."

The interior of the mansion was just as lavish as the exterior, with marble floors and expensive artwork adorning the walls. Joyce followed the woman, Mrs. Harrington, through the foyer and into the kitchen, trying to ignore the incredulous glances of other staff members she passed.

Mrs. Harrington gestured towards the countertop cluttered with dirty dishes. "Start here," she instructed briskly. "And mind you don't make a mess."

For the next several hours, Joyce scrubbed and polished with a determination born of necessity. She tried to focus on the task at hand, on the dirt and grime that she could make disappear, rather than the uncomfortable outfit she wore. Mrs. Harrington periodically checked in on her, offering curt instructions and pointed remarks.

As the afternoon wore on, Joyce's initial discomfort gave way to a weary resignation. She had never imagined herself in such a position, but she had to admit that the work itself was not beneath her. It was the uniform, the costume that made her feel ashamed.

Just as she was finishing up, Mrs. Harrington approached her once more. "You've done an adequate job," she remarked coolly. "I'll have the agency send you the details for your next assignment."

Relief flooded through Joyce as she gathered her things to leave. The promise of another paycheck, however meager, buoyed her spirits despite the circumstances. She hurried out of the mansion, eager to shed the humiliating costume and return to her husband.

When Joyce arrived home, Mark was already there, waiting anxiously. His face lit up when he saw her, and he enveloped her in a tight embrace. "How did it go?" he asked eagerly.

Joyce hesitated, unsure of how to explain the day's events. "It was... different," she finally managed, avoiding his gaze.

Mark frowned, sensing her unease. "Are you okay?"

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I got the job, Mark," she admitted quietly. "But there's something I need to show you."

With trembling hands, Joyce retrieved the costume from her bag and held it out for him to see. Mark's eyes widened in surprise and then clouded with concern as he took in the outfit. His jaw clenched, and Joyce feared his reaction.

"I'm so sorry, Joyce," he murmured, pulling her into another embrace. "I hate that you had to do this."

Tears welled up in Joyce's eyes as she clung to him, overwhelmed by his understanding and love. "I didn't want you to see me like that," she whispered hoarsely.

"You're still the strongest person I know," Mark said softly, brushing a tear from her cheek. "And we'll get through this together."

In that moment, Joyce knew that they would weather this storm just as they had weathered others before. They might have lost their dignity temporarily, but they hadn't lost their hope or their love for each other. As they held each other close, Joyce felt a flicker of optimism for the first time in months. Together, they would find a way to keep their home and rebuild their lives, no matter what challenges lay ahead.