Content Warnings: This story features grooming and implied sexual assault against Mirabel as a teenager (from an OC, not anyone in the family). It also covers references to past sexual-harrassment by Mirabel's previous employers, disordered eating, desires for self-harm, suicidal thoughts, and anxiety disorders. While I didn't try to make anything overly graphic, different things trigger different people, so please take care of yourself while you read. If you need specific chapter warnings, please PM me and I'll tell you which parts to avoid.
Mirabel had been in her fair share of hoarder's homes. From poverty to homeless shelters, letting go of items you might one day need was easier said than done. Even her own room was teetering the line between maximalist decor and packrat tendencies. Her dresser was bursting with half-completed sewing projects, and Antonio's toys and crayons often littered the floor of their shared room. Still, the amount of clutter in this house could put any hoarder to shame. Though it was clear someone had attempted to organize it at one point, years of pulling things out to look for various items and not putting them back had ended up creating shelves packed with doom boxes and random trinkets that made no sense. At her side, the man presumably to blame for the mess rubbed his palms together in a nervous gesture.
"I know it's a lot," he said, and Mirabel wasn't about to correct him. In all of her twenty years, she hadn't seen a house this big also be this full . There was no trash or mess, really, apart from the collection of used coffee mugs lining the small table beside the couch.
"I've seen worse," she lied, trying to give the man an encouraging smile. If he felt too embarrassed, he might change his mind and decide to try and clean it himself. She needed this gig, even if it was only part-time. Antonio had aged out of the overnight daycare when he'd turned four, and her daytime job only offered her six hour shifts at a time. Anything more than thirty hours a week, and they'd need to provide benefits, which they absolutely did not want to do. At her side, the man attempted to return the smile with an expression that looked more like a grimace. Though his ad had said "reclusive hermit", she hadn't actually expected him to be this out of touch with social graces.
"So it's not too much? You'll do it?"
Mirabel smiled a little brighter at him and reached out her hand, "You have yourself a deal …."
"Just Bruno is fine," the man said, clasping her palm with his own –sweaty, Mirabel realized– hand. "When can you start?"
"How does tomorrow sound?" She tried not to let him see her wiping her hand on her pants as she spoke.
"It sounds great," Bruno said.
Four hours. They'd cut her after four hours.
Mirabel couldn't help but fume as she rode the bus back to her home in the rooming house. Rent was due next pay, and she barely had enough hours to cover half of it so far. The new manager had taken a dislike to her for some reason, and often went out of his way to schedule her outside of daycare hours and then punish her for needing to swap shifts. He had twelve hours a day to work with, but somehow scheduling her between 7 AM-7 PM was too much to ask.
"You can't tell me you need more hours and then complain that I schedule you for longer shifts," he had told her. There was no use in arguing anymore, clearly it was time to apply to other fast food joints. It was no wonder the staff turnover was so bad at her current place.
The bus stopped a few blocks from her building, but the skies had opened up just in time for her to be soaked on the short walk to her front door. Though it was only two in the afternoon, the clouds had darkened the sky to look much later in the evening. Gloomy and depressing, a wonderful visual for an equally depressing day. Mirabel sighed as she opened the squeaky front door of the building and walked up the stairs. The bathroom she shared with two of her neighbors had been left ajar, and whatever smell was wafting out told her she didn't want to try and shower right then. Instead, she pushed open the door to her own little room and locked it behind her. After peeling off her soaked clothing, she ran a towel through her hair and tried to squish her curls into something more professional. Recently, she had cut her hair into a length she preferred as a teen, a short bob just above her shoulders. It made her face look less round and made her curls more bouncy, but it came with the downside of being too short to really put up or pull back. At work, she wore a hairnet or tied it back with scarves or bandannas, but at home she just had to let it flop where it pleased.
Hoping she didn't still reek of french fries and oil, Mirabel threw the towel into the corner and rummaged through her dresser for a respectable outfit. Bruno had told her that she could wear whatever she wanted, but she didn't want to look quite as destitute as she probably was. If people knew how much she was struggling, they would try to take advantage of her desperate need for money, and that was a road she refused to go down again. Thankfully, she found a dollar tree t-shirt that was freshly washed and a pair of jeans that were free of holes. She tried to shove the drawer shut, and eyed the clothing sticking out of it ruefully. So many items she had to repair, or hoped to embroider and sell eventually, but she never seemed to find the time to do it when Antonio was asleep. Too often, evenings after dinner time fell into a repetition of brush your teeth, get dressed, no you still have to brush your teeth, we can't watch Bluey if you aren't ready for bed, pick up your toys Antonio, yes you have to brush your teeth!
Antonio was a wonderful child. He rarely misbehaved, he had thankfully skipped the trying threes, and Mirabel knew she was lucky that he was such a happy little boy. He reminded her of herself as a child, optimistic and able to see the silver lining in anything. Life was some adventure to him, and setbacks were nothing more than obstacles to overcome. She hoped he kept that outlook for as long as possible. Which meant she had to make sure he never caught on to how bad their situation sometimes got. The landlord was a good guy, at least. He never talked to Mirabel about her late rent or bills when Antonio was with her. During the holidays, he even left some candy canes on their door for him to munch on. She was lucky, so so lucky in a lot of ways. It didn't mean she wasn't also exhausted. Five years of working two jobs and selling plasma to make ends meet would do that. Lately, she hadn't even been able to sell plasma, as she'd been turned away for her iron being too low twice. But it didn't matter. She'd find a way just as she always had, and for the interim, a part-time second job was better than no second job.
By the time Mirabel dragged herself to Bruno's door, she was soaked again from the rain. She'd brought an umbrella this time, but it did little against a wind so hard the rain came from sideways . Just as he had when she'd come for their first meeting, Bruno opened the door and surveyed her with wide eyes, like he wasn't quite sure she was real. It took a moment for his hands to catch up with his brain, but he flung the door open and stepped aside for her to get out of the storm. Mirabel's sneakers squelched when she slid them off her feet, trying to place them neatly rather than kicking them into a corner as she usually did. Housekeepers were supposed to be neat and tidy , even if cleaning other people's spaces had always been easier than her own. Bruno looked at her dripping hair when she pulled down the soaked hood of her hoodie, but thankfully didn't comment about the tattered neck hem or hole in the pocket that her finger kept sticking out of. She didn't have any better outerwear, not when the choice had been a winter coat for Antonio or a jacket for herself. She'd wear nothing but rags in winter if it meant being able to see that smile again as he pulled on the Paw Patrol coat and wriggled his little arms into the sleeves.
"You're very wet," Bruno commented when she pulled the hoodie over her head. The rain had soaked through to her t-shirt and jeans, and she grimaced at the chill as the air hit her bare arms.
"I know," Mirabel said apologetically. "I'll be careful not to drip anywhere. I wouldn't want to risk damaging your floors."
Without a word, Bruno turned around and strode off somewhere towards what she thought was the kitchen. She heard rummaging, a muffled thud and a curse, and then he returned only to hold a towel out to her.
"Thank you," Mirabel smiled as she pressed the towel to her hair and tried to scrunch the water-logged curls with it. Bruno stood awkwardly, hunched in a hoodie that was almost as tattered as Mirabel's, as though he didn't have a house the size of her entire building. There wasn't much more she could do than simply let him watch as she tried to pat herself dry as much as possible. There was no drying her jeans, but she managed to wring out the hem of her shirt and get her hair to stop dripping water everywhere. When it was clear she'd finished, Bruno held his hand out for the towel, but Mirabel hesitated. She was the maid, not him. It wouldn't be good to start her first day seeming entitled and lazy.
"If you can just point me towards the washer, I can take care of it," she said sheepishly, folding the towel over her arm and wishing she looked less like a drowned rat. Bruno cocked his head, almost appearing owlish as he surveyed her, but finally pulled his arm back and started walking away. This time, Mirabel followed him. He lead her to what looked like a closet door in the hallway beside a built-in shelf only to find herself looking down a steep, ancient staircase. Unease crept up her spine, but she followed him into the cement bowels of his house anyway. The basement looked like every other unfinished basement, right down to the mildew smell that cement rooms always had. There was a drain in the center of the floor, a large swath of gray-brown walls with a furnace tucked under the staircase. Bruno stepped closer to her, and Mirabel couldn't help but back away. No matter that he was her employer, he was still a strange older man who had her alone in the basement of his house. She'd been here before, and the outcome was seldom anything good for her.
"The… the washer, Señor Bruno?" He was assessing her with that owlish look again, but startled out of his thoughts when she spoke.
"Right, just in the corner, there, behind the pillar."
Mirabel nodded and started towards the large stone pillar in the centre of the basement, long and wide. Most likely it was the base of a chimney or other structural element, but all she cared about was that it put something in between her and Bruno. Her hands still shook slightly when she reached for the washer lid. There were a few items in it already, from what she could see in the deep drum. A sock that didn't have a match in the load, a dishtowel, and some wash clothes. A wooden shelf above the washer held a bottle of detergent and a rather impressive collection of dryer lint, but to her dismay, the bottle was empty when she opened it.
"Señor Bruno?" she called.
"Yeah?" A voice said behind her, and Mirabel legitimately jumped. The cap and bottle went flying, cap landing in the washing machine and the bottle skittering noisily across the floor. "Sorry, sorry!" Bruno's panic was almost as terrified as hers, and for a few moments, they could only stare at each other with heaving breaths and wide eyes. Mirabel composed herself first, and went to retrieve the bottle from where it had landed.
"Sorry, you startled me! You're out of detergent. Do you have more somewhere?" she said, trying and failing to make her voice sound calm despite still being breathless.
"I.. uh, no… No, I don't think so," Bruno stammered, looking at the empty detergent bottle like she held a venomous snake ready to strike. "I'll…. I'll get some.. I can order it tonight, and it should be here by tomorrow."
Mirabel had never heard of someone ordering laundry detergent, apart from those eco-friendly soap strips or whatever, but tried not to show her distaste. It wasn't her prerogative what rich people did with their money, even if there was a grocery store a ten minute walk away beside the bus stop. If her employer wanted to be wasteful, it wasn't her place to say anything.
"Alright, thanks. I will save the laundry for tomorrow then," she said, somewhat thankful it meant she could leave the basement and not return until the next day. Hopefully it would be brighter outside when she came next, and less stormy. They abandoned the washer and headed up the steps. This time, Mirabel noticed how quiet Bruno was when he walked. His socked feet barely made any noise on the concrete, and he seemed to know where to step to avoid making sound on the staircase. His knuckles knocking up the railing as they went were the only noise he truly made, a repetitive pattern that was as jarring as it was soothing somehow.
"Since laundry is on hold for now, where would you like me to start?" Mirabel asked once they'd entered the hallway once more. The chill of the basement had raised goosebumps over her still damp skin, but the main floor was warm and bathed in yellow light from the imbedded sconces.
"The bathroom?" Bruno suggested tentatively, brushing back a lock of his hair that was nearly as long as her own. The salt and pepper curls surrounding his face gave him a bit of an unhinged look, like someone she might avoid at a bus station. Or in a concrete basement. But the warm lights brought out the brightness of his eyes despite the dark circles beneath them, making him look both vibrantly young and exhaustedly weathered at the same time. She couldn't place her finger on why, but for some reason, Mirabel told herself she didn't have to be afraid of him. He reminded her of some long-forgotten memory of childhood, safe in her father's arms while she tried to smooth the wrinkles from his forehead.
"Mirabel?" Bruno asked, a furrow forming between his brows that had furrowed with a look of concern. Abruptly, she was pulled from her reverie and plunged back into the present.
"Sorry, sir, I got lost in my thoughts. It won't happen again," she said hurriedly, turning away from him to hunt down wherever the bathroom was. In a house this big, there were probably multiple. So, she turned back to him and prompted, "The bathroom?"
Bruno held her gaze in his own for what felt like an age, expression somewhere between concern and disoriented, before he finally nodded his head down the hall. Mirabel followed placidly, mentally kicking herself for not keeping it together. This was her first day. She had to appear professional. Her drenched clothes and jumpy personality were already a strike against her. The last thing she needed was him thinking she wouldn't listen.
So, when Bruno showed her the bathroom, Mirabel thanked him and returned to the door to grab her cleaning kit. Fifteen minutes later found her donning gloves and scrubbing the shower tiles with a mixture of dish soap and vinegar. If this gig became a regular thing, she would need to grab a better brush, and maybe some tile cleaner. Dish soap and vinegar were cheap and effective, but Bruno was probably expecting more luxury products like scrubbing bubbles or some other brand name. If she stayed long enough, she might even be able to afford one of those battery-powered scrubbers to save her sore wrists.
6 PM rolled around quickly, thankfully, and she threw her dirty gloves and products back into her "kit", which was just a plastic bag, and called out to Bruno as she tried to tie her laces on her still-soaked shoes.
"I'm done for the day, Señor Bruno. I'll see you again on Thursday!"
Somewhere upstairs, something crashed, and footsteps hurried down the steps towards her. Though he had hardly made noise coming up the basement steps, Bruno's rushed pace had him finding every creaky board on his descent towards her. It was a massive house, sure, but it was also older than the man himself. Likely, it hadn't been maintained very well.
"Hold on, you didn't get your money, yet," he said breathlessly. Mirabel paused from where she had been reaching for the door knob.
"You can cash app me, if that is easier." Typically, her clients just left cash out for her once a week or sent it virtually. Her services never lasted long enough to warrant getting the government and taxes involved, so she took the money in whatever form it came. One client, a middle-aged woman Mirabel had nicknamed Karen in her head, had insisted on walking through the house to ensure it was up to her standards before she handed Mirabel the envelope of cash. Perhaps this Bruno was similar, since it seemed so important to him that he spoke with her before she left.
"I don't…My wallet is in the kitchen, just hold on one minute." Mirabel could only nod and watch him saunter off towards a door across from the stairs he just descended. There was more rummaging and the sound of a few pots or pans hitting the floor. She cringed internally, already dreading cleaning that room. Finally, Bruno emerged with a battered leather wallet and passed her a wad of cash without counting it. Mirabel hated cash, sometimes. She never knew if it would be rude to simply stuff it in her pocket and go and thank them for any extra tips later, or to count it in front of them and risk implying she didn't trust them to uphold their end of the bargain. Her phone alarm chimed from her hoodie pocket, and she had to bite back a curse when she heard it. She'd been so absorbed in her work, she hadn't noticed her phone wasn't on her. The alarm she'd set for 6 must have timed out, because when she picked up the screen, the phone cheerfully called out, "It's 6:30. Time to pick up Antonio."
"Thank you, sorry, I really need to go," she said, grabbing the cash as delicately as she could manage and cramming it into her pocket. She would count later. Bruno didn't seem the type to scam her anyway.
"See you Thursday," Bruno dismissed her, looking oddly forlorn as he held the door open for her. It was still raining, but she didn't bother with the umbrella. It was useless anyway. Mirabel turned and waved once before taking off at a run towards the bus stop. She made it there within five minutes, but it didn't matter. The next bus didn't come until 6:45.
"Shit," she muttered, pulling out her phone and trying to stoop over it long enough to type out a quick text to Antonio's daycare teacher.
Running late. Be there in 45. Sorry.
Truthfully, it was a 50 minute ride just to the center, but Mirabel always tried to round down so she didn't look as late as she actually was. She could blame this on missing a connecting bus or something, rather than losing track of time entirely. Sometimes, people just seemed content knowing she was running late and didn't seem to notice the extra five or ten minutes. Other times, she used her prepared excuses and stammered apologies until they waved her off and told her not to do it again. Which she always tried to commit to, even if it never seemed to work out for her.
Señora Sanchez was normally a lovely old woman who adored everyone she met, but when it came to tardiness, her patience wore thin. Mirabel had been on the receiving end of her glare too many times for comfort, but this one was cold enough to freeze lava.
"Fifty-six minutes late, Ms. Madrigal," she said snippily. Mirabel winced and looked at her phone screen. The bus had made good time since it was able to breeze by most of its stops. Not many people wanted to use public transit in this storm, apart from Mirabel it seemed. Still, that wasn't acceptable to Señora Sanchez. 7:01 was unacceptable to her. Like some sort of senile Gremlin after midnight, the woman became a monster to deal with when pickup time was pushed back.
"I'm so sorry, Señora Sanchez. My first bus didn't come. I don't know if it was the storm or what happened, but I had to catch the next one. It won't happen again," Mirabel replied. The woman sighed, then leaned back and called Antonio from the play room.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Madrigal, but I can't make any more exceptions for you. Our late fee is a dollar per minute, and seeing as it was 7:56 when you showed up, I will need to add $56 to your upcoming bill. I understand life gets in the way, but I have a life too, and I can't keep putting mine on hold for you."
Mirabel bit her lip, trying to hold back her frustration. She understood, she really did. Sometimes when she used to work retail, she would be waiting on shoppers to finally vacate the store half an hour past close while silently cursing them. But almost $60? That was their food budget for a week. It was an entire day's pay if she got lucky enough for a full shift.
"I… I don't think I can afford that," she whispered just as Antonio came running through the door. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, raincoat not even zipped, but he slammed into her legs and wrapped his arms around her like he was scared she might run off. Mirabel leaned down to brush his hair back and plant a kiss on his forehead, then lifted him onto her hip. Though he was growing like a weed lately, he still balanced easily when she leaned her weight into her hip and let him wrap his arms around her neck.
"Mamí, I missed you!"
"I'm sorry, but I can't make exceptions. Goodnight Ms. Madrigal, Antonio. I'll see you both tomorrow." Señora Sanchez moved to close the door, but Mirabel's free hand caught it before it could budge.
"Actually, Toñito won't be in tomorrow. My work schedule got switched around again, so he'll need to do Thursday and Friday this week instead," she said. The teacher only nodded.
"Then I'll see you on Thursday. Goodnight."
With that, she shut the door in Mirabel's face and left her and Antonio standing on the porch. It wasn't the worst handover she'd ever gotten. Antonio's night daycare down at the church would have to take the prize for that, but it was definitely in the top ten worst.
"Why were you so late, Mamí?" Antonio asked, wriggling closer to Mirabel. Though she was glad her soaked clothes wouldn't get him wet while he wore his rain jacket, she still adjusted him enough so she could pull it closed where he snuggled into her side.
"I missed my bus, mijo, I'm so sorry." Antonio didn't seem that upset by her tardiness, though he was certainly clingy, but that was hardly unusual for him. Since he'd gotten used to having her all night and most of the evening, rather than just the evening before he went to the night care program at the church meant for babies and toddlers, her little boy had become her shadow. It was almost like he hadn't realized more time with her was possible, until he suddenly got it. Now, he spent every night wrapped around her in their shared bed. Mirabel loved being able to spend evenings doing story time and bathtime with him, rather than just shoveling down food and sleeping for a few hours while he played in his playpen, but she was still just as exhausted these days as when she'd been a teenager.
"Did you know otters hold hands when they sleep so they don't drift away?" Antonio said excitedly as Mirabel flashed the bus driver her pass. He nodded briefly, and then she walked them over to the first available seat. There was only one other woman on the bus, and she gave Mirabel a knowing smile as her son jabbered animal facts into her ear. She loved this part of being out with Antonio, the instant camaraderie with other mothers who saw her. After working long hours and hard jobs, she wasn't a fresh-faced teenager anymore, and didn't get the judgemental looks as often. Now, she got the "I've been there" smiles, and they made her feel less alone.
Antonio had transitioned from otters to manatees by the time Mirabel was unlocking their front door. She hummed in interest and aahed in wonder where appropriate as she led them to the bathroom, but Antonio barely seemed to notice when she set him on the tiled floor. Luckily, the smell from that afternoon had dissipated. If she was quick, she might be able to sneak in a shower in the morning before work.
"Use the toilet, mijito, so we can get ready for bed."
"But I didn't eat dinner yet! I always pee before I brush my teeth, and I can't brush my teeth until after I eat dinner," Antonio whined, looking at the toilet like it had personally betrayed him.
"We can skip your teeth for a night, Toñito, it won't matter in the long run," Mirabel reasoned, but her son just crossed his little arms and stared up at her.
"If I don't brush my teeth, Elsa won't sing for me, Mamí!" Well, there was no arguing with that.
They walked across the hall back to their room, and Mirabel unlocked the door while Antonio peppered her with some Elsa facts one of the kids at his daycare had told him apparently.
"Did you know Elsa doesn't just magic ice? She also makes snow alive, because that's how she made Olaf and Marshmallow and all the little Olafs from when she was sick."
"So she can create life too?" Mirabel mused as she helped him out of his raincoat and boots, trying to put more energy into her voice despite her tiredness.
"Just in snow," he said matter-of-factly. Mirabel smiled and ruffled his hair, then turned toward their dresser to grab a macaroni cup from the little stack on top of the microwave. Their room was small, but it was big enough for a dresser, double bed, and a minifridge and microwave. She'd moved the fridge to the closet when Antonio outgrew his playpen, though, so he had room to play on the carpeted floor. His chatter tapered off when he became engrossed in his dolls, but he abandoned them eagerly when she set his food on the TV tray by the bed.
"This isn't the blue bowl," he whined when he glanced at the generic brand mac and cheese. Mirabel helped him pull the tray closer to where he sat, and propped a pillow behind him to stop him from wiggling so much he knocked over the tray by falling back.
"That's because this is a special Rubble mac and cheese. See, the outside is yellow, his favorite color! If you eat it, you'll get big and strong like him and you can help people too."
"No way!" Antonio squealed, promptly grabbing his spoon and shoveling some into his mouth. To Mirabel, she didn't taste enough of a difference between the name brand and the dollar tree brand to warrant the more expensive ones, but Antonio was such a creature of habit. She only ever managed to get him to change a routine by making up a story or reason for the change. Luckily, four-year-olds were easily-impressed.
"When I'm five, can I drive a digger like Rubble too?" Antonio asked around a mouthful of macaroni. Mirabel raised an eyebrow at him, and he snapped his mouth shut and swallowed before repeating the question.
"People need to be adults before they can drive big things like that, but maybe for your birthday next month we can go drive bumper cars. I'll even let you have your own this time, if you can pretend you're seven to the worker," she said, settling closer to his side. She'd changed into dry clothes while he ate, and the softness of her nightgown was a godsend to her chilled skin.
"Why do I need to pretend? Five is specialer than seven, it means I get to start school!"
"Because only seven-year-olds can drive alone, but you're right, five is more special," Mirabel said, but inwardly she was panicking. Five already. That meant kindergarten. It meant money for the school's daycare, since she wouldn't be able to get out of work in time to pick him up and take him to Señora Sanchez. It meant school lunches, rather than the meals already being included in the price. Clothes and field trips and notebooks and classroom supplies. Not too long ago, Mirabel had been a student herself. She'd dropped out when she'd had Antonio, but she remembered all too well how much costs added up at school. Her parents had never hesitated to pay for the $20 field trips or $5 pizza lunch days or book fairs or various things she begged to do, but they'd been successful adults with careers and a two-income household. Mirabel was a high-school dropout working fast food and various under-the-table side gigs. She couldn't even afford the daycare's late fee. The school didn't stay late, not really. Fifteen minutes, maybe. Anything more than half an hour and she risked Antonio being turned over to social services.
"Why can't fives drive alone?" he asked, completely indifferent to her mental struggle. Mirabel picked up his empty bowl and tossed it in the trash, throwing the plastic fork into their dirty dish bin to wash later.
"Because not all five-year-olds are as smart as you, and they need a parent to help them drive. But as a treat for your birthday, I'm willing to let you try."
Antonio gushed excitedly about go-carts and roller coasters and merry-go-rounds while Mirabel dressed him for bed and led him to the bathroom. She stood aside while he used the toilet, glad the days of diapers and wiping him seemed to be over while at the same time mourning the baby he used to be. He was so big already, almost ready to start school. Sometimes she still felt like the fifteen-year-old girl cradling him to her chest, telling her Abuela that no one but her would be raising her son. On bad days, she wondered if Antonio would have been happier being Pepa's son and having her as a cousin instead of a mother. But then, she watched his eyes light up as she listened to his Elsa-shaped toothbrush sing a tinny version of Let It Go and wondered how she got so lucky. Their life may not be perfect, but it was theirs, and she wouldn't give it up for anything.