What I couldn't understand was the way Cora looked at me. Every single time, her eyes were full of disgust and contempt, as if I owed her millions.
A few times, while I was sitting on the couch watching TV, she would walk by, pinch her nose, and complain loudly: "God, this is so annoying. How does a place this nice always reek of poverty?"
I actually thought she'd smelled something off, so I reminded Georgette to give the house a thorough cleaning.
But Cora only escalated. She started dousing every spot I'd sat in with disinfectant spray. She laid disposable seat covers on the couch and made me sit on them. A few times, I caught her throwing things I'd used straight into the trash.
When I confronted Georgette, she always offered the same sheepish excuse in private: "Cora just worries those things aren't sanitary. She's looking out for your health, Miss Henson, so she's a little strict about it."
I didn't think much of it. Between school and managing the day-to-day operations of my family's company, I was stretched so thin I barely had the energy to eat, let alone argue with her over things like that.
Until this afternoon.