Chapter 2: The Silver Barrette

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I started working at the White House at thirteen, with only a plain silver barrette in my hair.

My feet barely brushed the ornate runner as I crossed the grand front hall for the first time. My hands shook pouring tea for senators whose voices boomed down the hallway. Through those years, I clung to that same silver barrette—just a sliver of home in a sea of strangers. From tea-serving maid to house manager, I survived twenty years within those white walls.

Senators once gifted me pearls, the First Lady rewarded me with chocolate-covered almonds. At the height of my favor, I even knelt to receive a rosary from the late President.

The rosary, cold and smooth, was pressed into my palms after a night of vigil when the President's fever finally broke. I still remember the faint peppermint on the First Lady's breath as she handed me those almonds, one by one, as if bestowing medals.

Now, twenty years have passed. On the day I leave, I still have only a plain silver barrette in my hair.

The barrette had dulled but never bent. And a severance check for a thousand dollars in my purse.

Mr. Peterson, the usher, watched closely, wary that someone might try to sneak something out of the White House.

He hovered by the door like a hall monitor on graduation day, watching each suitcase with the scrutiny of a customs agent. But when he saw me, his face broke into a smile, his cheeks folding over themselves, and he spoke warmly:

"Ellie, just double-check, okay? I’d hate for you to forget something that matters."

I glanced back at the room.

Everything looked impossibly tidy and just out of reach—like a museum after closing time. On the wall hung a paper kite with a broken wing—broken when Daniel was nine and fell; we had promised to fix it and fly it together again.

By the table stood a half-old lantern. I once carried it, running in the rain at night, searching for Daniel as he hid and cried.

But later, spring was always rainy. We kept saying tomorrow, tomorrow, but never went again.

I could almost smell the ozone from those old storms, feel the squelch of muddy grass under my shoes. That lantern actually had a hole. If you weren't careful when carrying it, the wind would blow it out, easy to stumble in the dark.

But Daniel no longer needs it.

The President's residence is as bright as day, even at midnight.

There were no shadows left to hide in, not for either of us. I smiled, not wishing to delay him:

"Thank you, Mr. Peterson. I haven't left anything behind."