EMILY
The moment the room door shut behind us, I dropped the pretense.
Auntie Harriet's travel bag sat quietly at the foot of the bed, its corners were worn from the road, and the scent of dust and camphor filled the air. But even in this maid's room, the energy between us was anything but ordinary.
“You took your time, Auntie,” I said with a playful pout as I turned to face her.
Auntie Harriet let out a low chuckle. “You missed me?”
I threw my arms around her without hesitation. “Missed you? That's even an understatement. I'm sure this house felt like a graveyard without you. No one to talk to. No one to keep me sane. You should’ve seen how many times I almost packed my bags.”
She gave me a warm, matronly hug, her arms strong and grounding.
“I watched you on that television,” she
