Dear Cinderella,
Were you thankful at first?
I was.
I was grateful for the roof over my frame and a bed to rest my head.
Thankful that pay wasn't expected—as long as I did my work.
I could sing while sweeping and mopping.
Wiping and washing.
Scrubbing and dusting.
Folding and putting away.
Then gratitude molded into routine and appreciation is hardly shown.
Oh, how I miss the sense of thankfulness.
But my hands must stay busy.
Whispered complaints behind my back stick to my ears like soap-scum on an iron pan.
Topics change like rinsing water, and I am left out to dry.
I take on...