‘I hid from the truth about the domestic workers who ran my home, but finally I had to tell their story’
The first time I paid another woman to clean my apartment, it felt like an experiment. I was 24, and I’d recently started a job as a national correspondent for a big newspaper. The assignment came with professional trappings and freedoms I’d never had before: a stylish office in a downtown skyscraper, a full-time research assistant, a travel budget that never seemed to run dry.
It was a man who put me up to calling a house cleaner. I’d made the mistake of mentioning that I had to clean my house. He laughed. “Why are you doing your own cleaning? Hire somebody.”
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