At 32, Ingrid had learned how to survive without expecting softness from the world.
She had no parents to call, no grandparents, no siblings, and no one waiting for her at the end of a hard day. She had spent her whole life on her own, or as close to it as a child in the system could be.
One foster home blurred into the next, each with its own rules, tempers, and locked cupboards. By the time she aged out, she had already stopped hoping someone might come back for her.
Now she lived in a small, worn-down trailer on the edge of town, where the floor creaked in winter, and the pipes complained whenever she turned the tap.
It was not much, but it was hers.
She paid for it the same way she paid for everything else in her life, one careful dollar at a time.
That was why she said yes when the cleaning service called with a one-time job in an empty house.