With no grand plan, I took a cleaning job at a neighborhood school. The wages were modest and the days long, but the children noticed me. They called me Miss Lana, and I brought homemade cookies for those who arrived hungry. I cleaned rooms before dawn, then stayed when someone needed encouragement more than a polished floor.
Sarah had a mother working three jobs, so I helped her read after class until she finished a whole page by herself. Marcus was mocked for worn clothes; I saved good art supplies for him and displayed his pictures on my bedroom wall. Their trust restored a purpose I thought heartbreak had taken away.
Jordan stayed latest. He was a quiet foster child who had been moved too many times. He stacked chairs beside me, accepted the apples and crackers I tucked into his bag, and let me explain fractions. Once he asked why grown-ups kept sending him away. I held him and told him their choices did not measure his worth. “You’re not the problem,” I said. “Some adults fail to recognize a gift.”
For fifteen years, that school was my second home. Then budget cuts closed it, and I grieved as if a family had scattered overnight. The nearby mall hired me, but there I became nearly invisible. Shoppers stepped around wet-floor signs, teenagers dropped trash beside empty bins, and adults spoke mostly to complain. I missed being useful to people who knew my name.
