Six girls stood on the staircase. Madison, twelve, stiff and guarded. Brooke, ten, pulling at her sleeves. Lily, nine, restless eyes. Emma, eight, pale and silent. The twins, Ava and Mia, six, smiling too deliberately. And three-year-old Chloe clutching a torn stuffed rabbit.
“I’m Sarah,” she said evenly. “I’m here to clean.”
Madison stepped forward. “You’re number thirty-eight.”
Sarah smiled. “Then I’ll start with the kitchen.”
She noticed the photos on the refrigerator—Eleanor cooking, Eleanor asleep in a hospital bed holding Chloe.
Grief didn’t hide in that house.
It lived openly.
Sarah made banana pancakes shaped like animals, following a note taped inside a drawer. She left the plate and walked away. When she returned, Chloe was eating quietly, eyes wide with surprise.
The twins tested her first—a rubber spider in the mop bucket.
Sarah examined it. “Good effort,” she said, handing it back. “But fear needs imagination.”
They stared, unsettled.
When Emma wet the bed, Sarah only said, “Fear confuses the body. We’ll clean it up.”
Emma nodded, tears held back.
Sarah sat with Lily during a panic attack, guiding her breathing until it slowed.
“How do you know how to do this?” Lily whispered.