“That wasn’t my question.”
Silence.
The refrigerator hummed quietly behind us.
Finally, she whispered the number.
Something inside me went still.
“Say that again.”
She repeated it.
A number.
A monthly salary.
A figure so low that it made no sense.
“That’s impossible.”
June immediately looked frightened.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
She flinched.
I softened it.
“No, June. I’m not angry at you.”
I looked away.
Because now I was angry.
Just not at her.
“You work six days a week.”
“Yes.”
“You clean this entire house.”
“Yes.”
“You manage supplies, coordinate events, and help train new staff.”
She nodded.
“And you’re telling me this is what you receive?”
She nodded again.
“I send most of it home.”
“Most?”
“My mother has lung problems.”
Her fingers moved across the bracelet.
“Medication is expensive.”
She paused.
“School costs money.”
Another pause.
