Working for Mrs. Royston gives me all kind of mixed feelings. In one hand, there's the fact that she picked me off the streets, a total stranger, to work no less than in her own house. Not only I get paid for it, I also bring food every day, both for dinner, and for Jeanne's lunch for the next day. She also gave me an advance on my salary, which she'll deduct in small bits through the next few months.

I'm grateful for this, don't get me wrong.

The problem is that she's pretty much the most insufferable old lady I've ever met. She doesn't know how to ask for things politely: she barks orders like a mad general; doesn't know the meaning behind magic words like please and thank you. She always finds a reason to complain about everything. One day my food has too much salt, and the next day she tells her dinner didn't have enough, when we're talking about the same meal.

Sometimes she complains that things are not clean enough, but other times she finds me cleaning the house and tells me to leave it like that, that it's fine.

I seriously don't get her.

Today is the first Saturday since I started working for her, and Jeanne doesn't go to school. We didn't discuss if this was a seven days a week job, so I have no choice but to go there and find out. What if she's expecting me and I don't go? I could be fired by Monday, and I can't afford that.

"Do I have to go, Mom?" Jeanne whines, lazily scratching her tangled blond hair, not really wanting to be out of bed at half past seven on a Saturday. Since it's just the two of us, I have no choice but to take her with me and pray Mrs. Royston doesn't mind a kid in her house. I watch Jeanne eat corn flakes, thinking that she's mostly a quiet child, so I hope it won't be a problem. Plus, Mrs. Royston has been quite understanding about my problems so far despite her bad blood, and she already knows that I'm a single mother with nobody else to watch Jeanne while I work.

"I wish we could stay here, sweet bee. But Mommy has to work."

"I hate your job."

"No, you don't." I tell her, drinking my last sip of coffee. "It's a blessing that Mommy got a job to pay bills and food."

"Ever since Dad died, you're always tired. And your face is full of wrinkles now."

"Are you calling me old, young lady?" I try to scold her, but it comes with a smile.

"Nope." She says, drinking the last of her milk. "I'm saying that you're my last bit of family, and you're working even on weekends, and that's not healthy."

"Yes, I am your last bit of family." I say, smiling proudly at her. It's hard to believe this girl is only six years old. "And that's exactly why Mom has to take care of you, my dear Jeanne."