They used to call me “garbage girl.” Not quietly. Not behind my back. Loudly. Across the playground, down the hallway, sometimes even when I was standing right there. “Hey, garbage girl! Does your mom bring leftovers home from the toilets she cleans?” They would laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world. My mom worked nights cleaning office buildings downtown. She scrubbed floors, emptied trash cans, and cleaned bathrooms most people wouldn’t step into without holding their breath. She came home smelling like bleach and exhaustion. Her hands were always cracked from chemicals, her back permanently bent from...
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