If someone had told me two years ago that I’d be pushing a janitor’s cart through the same corridors where my portrait hung on the wall, I would have laughed in their face.
If someone had told me two years ago that I’d be pushing a janitor’s cart through the same corridors where my portrait hung on the wall, I would have laughed in their face. But there I was—gray jumpsuit, rubber gloves, and a name stitched in red thread: Ellen. Beneath the scarf that hid my hair, … Read more