Most people never really see janitors.
Not the men rushing past in tailored suits, eyes glued to their phones.
Not the women clicking across polished floors with coffee in one hand and earbuds in the other.
And certainly not the teenagers who toss paper towels onto the ground as if the floor will magically clean itself.
I stopped expecting to be seen a long time ago.
My name is Martha. I’m sixty-three years old, and for more than forty years, I’ve worked nights—quiet hours spent scrubbing bathrooms, wiping fingerprints off mirrors, and mopping floors under flickering fluorescent lights. Office buildings. Highway rest stops. Places people pass through without a second thought.
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