Poor Janitor Gave Mafia Boss's Crying Son Her Only Sandwich—What He Did Next Shocked Everyone скачать в хорошем качестве

Poor Janitor Gave Mafia Boss's Crying Son Her Only Sandwich—What He Did Next Shocked Everyone

Poor Janitor Gave Mafia Boss's Crying Son Her Only Sandwich—What He Did Next Shocked Everyone The industrial floor cleaner hums beneath my hands as I guide it across the marble lobby of the Apex Tower, Chicago's most exclusive high-rise. It's 2:47 in the morning, and my back already aches from the previous six hours spent cleaning office buildings on the South Side. This is my third job tonight, and I still have the breakfast shift at the diner in four hours. My reflection in the polished marble mocks me—navy blue uniform two sizes too big, hair scraped back into a ponytail, dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could hide even if I had money for makeup. I'm 28 years old, but tonight I feel ancient. The sandwich in my work bag calls to me. Peanut butter and jelly on day-old bread from the discount rack. It's supposed to be my dinner, but I've been too busy to eat. My stomach growls in protest, a sound that echoes embarrassingly in the empty lobby. "Just two more floors," I whisper to myself, the way I've been doing for the past eight months since I fled Boston with my five-year-old daughter, Lily. Two more floors, then I can sit in the service closet for fifteen minutes, eat half the sandwich, and save the other half for Lily's breakfast. She thinks the free lunch at her school is the only meal I can afford. She doesn't know I often skip eating entirely so she can have seconds at dinner. The elevator dings behind me, and I startle. Nobody should be here at this hour. The building management assured me the after-midnight shift meant working alone, invisible, exactly what I need. If you're enjoying this story so far, don't forget to hit the like button and subscribe! Drop a comment telling me where in the world you're watching from—I love hearing from you! I kill the floor cleaner's motor and turn slowly. A little boy stands in the elevator doorway, his small hand holding the door open. He can't be more than seven or eight, wearing pajamas—expensive ones, silk with some designer pattern I don't recognize—and his feet are bare. His dark hair is tousled from sleep, and his face is streaked with tears. My maternal instinct overrides my caution. I'm across the lobby before I consciously decide to move. "Sweetheart, are you okay?" I kneel in front of him, bringing myself to his eye level. Up close, I can see he's been crying for a while. His brown eyes are swollen and red, his nose running.