When Clara first met Rosa, she wasn’t sure what to expect. The woman standing at her doorstep had thick chestnut hair pulled into a low bun, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder, and an air of calm so grounded it felt almost out of place in their rushed household.
“I treat every home like it’s my own,” Rosa had said softly, a small smile on her lips. And from the very beginning, she delivered on that promise. She wasn’t just efficient—she was intuitive. Floors sparkled, laundry folded itself it seemed, toys reappeared neatly arranged by color.