Vivian’s POV
Tuesday morning, I arrived at the shelter ten minutes early. Elena met me at the front desk with a clipboard and a quick nod. “No makeup, no jewelry, no heels,” she said, eyeing my flat shoes and plain blouse. “Good. You listened.” “I don’t want to look like I’m here to inspect.”
“You’re not. You’re here to help. Come on.”
She walked me through the main floor. Women in the common area glanced up, some curious, some guarded. A young mother with a toddler on her hip gave a small wave. I waved back.
We stopped in a conference room that doubled as a classroom. Whiteboard, folding tables, mismatched chairs. A stack of resumes on the table.
“Today’s group is job placement,” Elena said. “Eight women. Ages twenty-two to forty-one. Most have been out of the workforce for years. So
