My phone buzzed as I packed my cleaning caddy. Another day, another home that needed cleaning.

"Clean Slate Services, this is Claire," I answered, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder as I checked my supply of microfiber cloths.

"Hello?" The voice was elderly and tentative. "My name is Margaret. My daughter suggested I contact you. She said you post videos online about helping people clean their homes?"

I smiled, thinking of the before-and-after videos that had become surprisingly popular.

My small cleaning business may not have been setting the world on fire, but scrubbing suburban floors and dusting small offices served a greater purpose. Those jobs allowed me to offer free cleaning services to people in need.

"That's me," I replied to Margaret. "How can I help?"

"It's not for me." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "It's my neighbor, Eleanor. She needs help. She won't ask for it, but she needs it."

Something in her tone made me stop what I was doing.

I'd heard this kind of concern before — the worry that comes when someone watches another person slowly disappear.

"Tell me about Eleanor," I said, sitting down on a nearby stool.

Margaret sighed. "Her yard is completely overgrown now. There are newspapers piling up on her porch that she never brings in. I tried checking on her last week and she barely opened the door, but when she did..." Margaret paused. "There was a bad smell. And what I could see behind her... it wasn't good."

My stomach tightened. I knew what that meant.

"It wasn't always like this," Margaret continued. "She used to be out in her garden all the time. Her roses won ribbons at the county fair. Then, one day... she just stopped. She's a good person, Claire. I just... something's terribly wrong."

I hesitated for only a moment. These calls never came at convenient times, but that was the nature of crises.

"I'll be there in an hour," I promised. "What's the address?"

After hanging up, I texted Ryan, my husband and business partner: Emergency clean-up. Not sure how bad yet. May need backup.

His response came immediately: On standby. Let me know.

I grabbed my "first assessment" kit — gloves, mask, basic cleaning supplies, and a change of clothes. Experience had taught me to always be prepared for the worst.

Eleanor's house was a modest one-story with faded blue siding. The lawn had transformed into a meadow and dead flowers hung in forgotten window boxes. The mailbox listed to one side, stuffed with envelopes.

I knocked and waited. Nothing. I knocked again, louder.

Finally, I heard shuffling footsteps. The door opened just an inch, revealing a sliver of a woman's face.

She was pale, with unkempt hair and tired eyes that widened at the sight of my company polo shirt.

"I don't need a cleaning service," she muttered, already starting to close the door.

"I'm not here to sell anything," I said quickly, keeping my tone gentle. "Margaret asked me to come. She's worried about you. She thought you might need help."

Eleanor's jaw set in a hard line. "I can handle it myself."