My name is Martha. I’m 63 years old, and for most of my life, I’ve worked night shifts as a janitor.
If you’ve ever walked through a rest stop at 2 or 3 a.m., I’m the kind of person you don’t really see—the woman pushing a mop, emptying bins, keeping the lights clean for people who are already gone by the time the sun comes up.
I raised my own children mostly alone. Their father left when they were young, and I did what I knew how to do best: I worked. Extra shifts. Holiday shifts. Any shift that paid a little more. I wanted my kids to have things I never had—music lessons, school trips, new shoes instead of secondhand ones.
Somewhere along the way, the distance grew. Calls became shorter. Visits turned rare. Eventually, they only reached out when they needed something. Money. Help. A favor.
