Janitors go unnoticed by most people.
Not the women wearing earbuds and click-clack heels, nor the males in suits. And definitely not the teenagers who leave paper towels on the ground as if someone else should do the cleanup.
I don’t mind, though.
Janitors go unnoticed by most people.
I’m 63 years old and go by Martha. I’ve worked the night shift for the last forty years, primarily cleaning business buildings and rest areas where the mirrors are always smeared and the lights buzz.
People find it depressing.
The loneliness, the quiet, the hours. However, I don’t. Because the work is honest and, in its own way, clean.
People find it depressing.
Even yet, you expect that your children will at least pay you a visit when you sacrifice everything—your time, your body, and your youth—to ensure that they have better lives. Or perhaps make a birthday call. Or perhaps send a postcard from one of those costly trips they took but you were never able to.
Mine didn’t.
Ben is my son, while Diana and Carly are my two children. They’re all grown up and have college degrees on walls that I’ve never been allowed to view. They have spouses, kids, granite-countertop kitchens, and separate wine refrigerators.
Or perhaps make a birthday call.
And me? They simply outgrown me as a woman.
Like paper flying down the street, the holidays come and go. There is a constant stream of excuses.
“This time of year, Mom, flights are crazy.”
“The children perform at recitals. I have to be there for them.
“Mom, perhaps you could come over here? However, I must be with my in-laws for Christmas.
“Next time, we’ll be here.”
And me?
They simply outgrown me as a woman.
However, “next time” never arrived.
Nevertheless, I continued to work. I continued cleaning their futures.
I was at the interstate rest station that Tuesday morning for that reason. I heard it, faint at first, like a distressed cat, when I was sweeping the floor by the sinks.
I listened and froze.
Nevertheless, I continued to work.
Then I heard it once more. This time it was a weak, breathless wail, a whimper.
I ran, dropping the mop.
The second trash can in the restroom, which always filled up the fastest, was the source of the noise. I spotted him when I knelt down.
A newborn. A boy baby.
He was tucked between ripped napkins and empty chip bags and covered in a thin, discolored blanket. Beneath him was a thin navy hoodie.
I ran, dropping the mop.
Even though he was left there, someone had taken the time to make sure he was as comfortable as possible. No harm has come to him. He had simply been abandoned there, awaiting rescue.
Tucked into the blanket was a note:
“I was unable to do it. Please protect him.
“My goodness,” I said. “Who could have abandoned you, sweetheart?”
“I was unable to do it. Please protect him.
Naturally, he remained silent, but his small fists became more clenched. My heart pounded. I embraced him and covered him with my shirt. My hands were rough and wet. It didn’t matter that my outfit smelled like bleach.
I lifted him gently into my arms and murmured, “I’ve got you.” “You’re secure now. I understand you.
Behind me, the bathroom door cracked open. In the doorway, a man froze. Tall and broad-shouldered, he worked as a truck driver. It appeared as though he hadn’t slept properly for days because of the black circles beneath his eyes.
“You’re secure now. I understand you.
He fixed his gaze on the bundle I was holding.
His voice broke in the middle of his question, “Is that… a baby?”
I hastily adjusted the towel around the boy and responded, “Yes.” He was behind the bin in the crawl space. I need you to dial 911 immediately. All I’m trying to do is warm his body.
Without hesitation, the man entered. He took his phone out of his pocket after removing his jacket and throwing it to me. On his shirt was a name patch that read Tim.
“Is that a baby?”
He knelt next to me and mumbled, “Is he —?”
I firmly stated, “He’s alive,” refusing to consider any other possibility. But, Tim, he’s fading quickly. Let’s assist this infant kid.
Tim began telling the dispatcher everything.
“We are at the I-87 rest break. A newborn has been discovered close to the bathroom trash can. When the janitor arrives, she tries to control his body temperature. The infant is breathing but not moving.
“Let’s assist this infant boy.”
I let out a slow breath. Soon, the paramedics would arrive. We could save this young youngster if they helped us.
The ambulance arrived in a matter of minutes. I hardly heard the paramedics’ questions as they carefully removed baby from my arms and covered him with heated foil.
One of them remarked, “He’s lucky you found him.” “He might not have made it if it had been another hour.”
Soon, the paramedics would arrive.
Without hesitation, I hopped inside the ambulance. I had to make sure he would be alright.
He was referred to as “John Doe” at the hospital.
However, I had already given him the nickname “Little Miracle.”
It was difficult to foster him given my age and schedule. Tanya, the first social worker, was a sweet-eyed woman who didn’t mince words.
“Tiny Miracle”
On her first house visit, she stated, “Martha, I need to be honest.” “You continue to work two jobs, and your shifts are nightly. With these hours, no agency will accept a placement.
“What if I altered them?” I inquired. “What if I reduced my hours, quit working nights, and spent my evenings at home?”
Her expression changed to one of amazement as she asked, “You’d do that?”
“A placement involving these hours will not be approved by any agency.”
I replied, “Yes, I would.” “I’ve helped a lot of folks who never expressed gratitude. For someone who hasn’t got an opportunity yet, I can do a little more.
I also made some cuts. I liquidated my coin collection, released part of my money for us to use, and let go of my janitorial contracts. I managed to make it work. Although it lacked glamour, it was more than sufficient.
After six months, Tanya came back. She put a pen on the table and entered the small but cozy nursery I had made.
I managed to make it work.
“Martha, we can make it permanent if you’re still certain,” she said.
“I’m certain,” I said. “I want him for eternity.”
John became my legal son in an instant.
I made an effort to inform my kids. I texted, emailed, and sent them pictures of John wearing adorable onesies.
“I want him for eternity.”
Diana gave a thumbs-up emoji in response. Carly gave no response at all.
Ben texted:
“Hopefully, that won’t be permanent.”
It didn’t matter, though.
I had to raise a child once more. Despite not asking for it, I was given another chance.
“Hopefully, that won’t be permanent.”
In every aspect, John the miracle became associated with his name. He started reading children’s encyclopedias at the age of five. By eleven, he was growing moss in jars on the windowsill and gathering soil samples.
He had a passion for frogs, stars, and unanswered questions.
He entered a statewide science fair at the age of sixteen with a project about reversing soil pollution with microfungi. After assisting him in carrying the display board through the gymnasium doors, I stood in the back row and watched as he confidently described his findings, unlike most adults I knew.
No one else even considered asking the questions he did.
Naturally, John took first place and attracted the interest of a professor at SUNY Albany, who extended an offer to him for a scholarship to their summer youth research program.
I gave my son a firm embrace when he rushed into the kitchen with the acceptance letter in hand and a trembling voice.
I said, “I told you, my sweetheart.” “The world is going to change because of you.”
I embraced my son tightly.
John received an invitation to discuss his findings at a national conference on his eighteenth birthday. Still not sure if I belonged in a room full of luxury handbags and silk ties, I sat in the audience.
My son then took the stage, nevertheless.
After clearing his throat and adjusting the microphone, he looked over the crowd until he came across me.
“I’m here because of my mother,” he stated. When I was completely alone, she came across me. She provided me with love, respect, and all the chances I needed to develop into the person I am today. She never once failed to remind me of my importance.
“I am here because of my mother.”
There was loud applause. I was having trouble breathing. I was unable to even clap. Knowing that I had never felt so proud in my life, I just sat there with tears streaming down my face.
I was shaking out an old rug when I slipped on the porch a year later. My hip went out under me, and I felt like I could faint on the concrete from the sudden, intense pain. I tried to sit up, but the world whirled.
I was only able to scream.
Never in my life have I felt such pride.
There was nobody.
Before my neighbor, Mrs. Lerner, heard me and phoned John, I lay there for over twenty minutes.
His jacket was half-zipped and his hair was a jumble when he got there, as if he hadn’t given it any thought. He knelt down next to me and wiped the dirt off my cheek.
He said, “Mama, don’t move.” “I’ve got you. I swear.
I was unable to walk for weeks following the procedure.
Without asking any questions, John returned home. Every night, he prepared dinner, made fresh scones for breakfast, did the washing, and spent the slow, painful hours with me.
“I’ve got you. I swear.
He occasionally read passages from his biology textbooks to me. At other times, he simply sat and hummed softly to himself.
He sat on the edge of the bed one evening and served me a bowl of apple pie with warm custard.
“May I ask you a question, Mom?”
“Anything, of course, my miracle.”
“May I ask you a question, Mom?”
“What should I do if something were to happen to you? Who should I call? The others?
I grasped his hand and gave it a light squeeze.
I said, “You don’t have to call anyone.” “You’re the one already.”
“Who should I call?”
I took out my notebook and amended my will that evening after John had gone to bed. He would get everything.
I invited my kids to come see me after telling them about the fall. I inquired as to if anyone was interested in participating in the medical procedure or anything else. Nobody answered.
Not even a “get well soon” text was sent.
Nobody answered.
When I told John he would inherit everything, he objected.
He sat across from me at the kitchen table and said softly, “You don’t have to do this.” None of it was ever necessary for me. You are aware of that.
I gave him a look. I gazed at the guy I had nurtured, cherished, and witnessed transform from a trembling bundle into someone who could still find room for tenderness in a world that hardly ever provides it.
“None of it was ever necessary for me.”
I said, “It’s not about need.” “The truth is at issue. John, you were a cherished baby when you were born. Yes, for whatever reason, your mother was unable to care for you. However, my dear, you were never a substitute in my life. You were the gift I discovered and will always cherish.
He briefly closed his eyes.
You know they’re going to pursue it. when they discover it.
“My dear, you were never a substitute in my life.”
I gave a nod. I had already arranged things. I wasn’t going to allow my kids to try to attack John while I was away since I knew how nasty they had grown.
The following week, my lawyer informed each of my children via certified letters that John would receive my whole estate, which was not much. Small, symbolic gestures had been incorporated into the letters just to avoid any surprises.
At sixteen, Diana once complimented someone on a silver jewelry. The glass vase that Carly hated would be given to her. Additionally, Ben would be given an antiquated brass alarm clock that he detested for promptly waking him up.
I had already arranged things.
There was nothing more or less than that.
The response was swift. John had to go outside to breathe after hearing one of Carly’s harsh and loud voicemails, as well as cruel emails and legal threats.
Later that evening, I saw him standing on the back stairs with his hands joined together and his gaze fixed on the stars.
“They’re upset, Mom,” he muttered. “This shouldn’t have been ugly.”
The response was swift.
I answered, “I know, sweetheart.” “I didn’t either. But John, they made their decision years ago. They all left me after college. Yes, I attended Diana and Carly’s weddings, but I wasn’t contacted when their children were born. Ben did not invite me to his wedding in Thailand. You made no requests.
With tears welling up in his eyes, he turned to face me.
“Love and care were the only things you requested. You gave me everything I could ever hope for, and you took every last ounce of life. You made it possible for me to have a child who loves me.
“You made no requests.”
After a time, he said, “You did the right thing.” “I always needed you, even if I never needed your things.”
Now, that’s what I keep with me.
I don’t recall saving a life when I look back to that chilly morning, the cry in the dark, and the way he cuddled onto me like I was the only warmth left in the world.
“I always needed you, even if I never needed your things.”
I recall coming across one.
And just as he gave me the one thing I believed I would never get back, I gave him everything I had:
A cause for love. An excuse to stay. And a reason to be important.
