It was a typical Saturday morning. I had my hair up in a messy bun, rubber gloves on, and the scent of lemon cleaner lingering in the air. I was elbow-deep in scrubbing our kitchen sink when the doorbell rang.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel and opened the door. Standing there was a sharply dressed man in a tailored suit, holding a red folder and flashing a warm smile.
“Hey! Oh, you must be Mr. Lambert’s cleaning lady, Liliya,” he said confidently. “I’m his business partner.”
I blinked. Mr. Lambert’s what now?
He didn’t give me time to respond before adding, “Mrs. Lambert showed me your picture!”
My stomach twisted. Mrs. Lambert showed him… a picture of me? Then who did he think I was?
Ah, of course. I looked down at my hoodie, cleaning gloves still on one hand, and realized — he thought I was just the help.
Fine. Let’s play.
I stepped aside, putting on my best thick accent and cheerful grin.
“Please, come in, sir! Would you like some tea while you wait for Mr. Lambert?”
He chuckled and followed me inside. “That’d be great. You’ve got a lovely home. So spotless!”
“Thank you,” I said, boiling with curiosity. “So, you’ve known Mr. and Mrs. Lambert for a long time?”
“Oh, years! We’ve done business trips, family get-togethers… they’re quite the power couple.”
I forced a smile. “Oh really? You must have pictures together, then. Show me, please!”
“Sure!” he said eagerly, unlocking his phone.
He swiped a few times and turned the screen toward me.
And that’s when my knees almost gave out.
There, on the screen, was my husband — Mark Lambert — standing between two people I’d never seen before in my life. The woman had her arm around him. Elegant. Polished. Fake smile. Mark was smiling, too — a little too warmly.
My hand trembled.
“You okay?” the partner asked, puzzled.
I snapped out of it, handed him back the phone. “Yes, yes. Just—shocked how well-dressed Mrs. Lambert looks. I clean, but I never see her. Always… ‘busy,’” I muttered.
He nodded, completely unaware. “She travels a lot, I guess.”
Right. Travels.
I offered him more tea and waited until Mark came home. When he walked in, he did a double take seeing his business partner chatting comfortably with the “cleaning lady.”
His face went pale.
I smiled sweetly. “Oh, Mr. Lambert. Your guest and I were just reminiscing about all the wonderful photos you’ve taken with your wife.”
The silence in the room could slice steel.
His partner looked between us, confused. “Wait—you’re not the cleaning lady?”
I pulled off my gloves and held up my wedding ring.
“No. I’m Mrs. Lambert. But apparently… not the one you’ve been spending time with.”
My husband stammered, but I was already walking out of the room, red folder in hand — the one his partner had brought, which just so happened to have the address of Mark’s “other life” inside.
By the end of the week, Mark was gone. I kept the house.
And when I hire a cleaning lady now, she knows exactly who she’s working for.