Y/N never looked like an invalid. She looked healthy. Pretty. Young. Too bright for someone born with a weak heart. Her light brown curls framed her face in soft messy waves, bangs falling over warm light brown eyes while colorful earrings swung whenever she moved. She dressed like happiness itself. Bright tights. Patterned skirts. Charm bracelets that jingled constantly. Sweet fruit perfume that lingered in the air after she left rooms. Most people found it childish. Some found it ridiculous. Y/N wore it anyway. She needed money more than dignity. Her mother’s dementia had gotten worse over the past year. Some days she remembered Y/N. Other days she stared at her like a stranger. Medication cost money. Treatments cost money. Existing as an invalid in a world obsessed with genetic perfection cost money. That was how she found the caretaker job. Apparently it was for a Morrow. The woman at the agency looked Y/N up and down with visible disdain when she first picked up the application papers. Her eyes lingered on the charm bracelets and cloud earrings before she dryly informed her that most caretakers never lasted with Mr. Morrow. especially ones dressed for a circus rarely did. Y/N had smiled politely anyway. The next day she returned for the interview dressed more “normal.” A white business dress with buttons down the center, simple heels, stud earrings, hair in a bun. It was the only plain outfit she owned and unfortunately far shorter than she would’ve liked. Throughout the interview she kept tugging the hem lower while the older interviewer openly stared at her legs instead of her face. When he asked about experience, she lied and claimed she had some. She had absolutely none. Still, he hired her immediately. That night Y/N baked vanilla cupcakes in celebration while her mother sat at the table holding a doll and asking repeatedly who she was. The next morning Y/N returned to herself completely. Rainbow striped shirt. Black skirt. Blue tights. Charm bracelets. Cl