My daughter was kneeling on the cold marble floor, scrubbing like a cleaning lady in a commercial. Her hands were red and irritated. She was wearing a faded cotton dress I remembered buying for her years ago, when we still lived together. It hung loosely on her, as if it had shrunk inside her.
“Grace,” I whispered.
She looked up.
The little girl who used to run barefoot through our small garden, talking about her big dreams, now had… empty eyes. As if the light inside her had gone out.
Before I could say anything, heavy heels clicked behind me.
The stepmother.
A tall woman entered the kitchen, dressed in white from head to toe. Her hair was perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, and her nails painted a bright, vibrant red. She looked at me as if I were an unexpected problem in her orderly world. Then she looked down at my daughter.
“That girl is only good for scrubbing floors,” she said vehemently. “If you can’t keep this kitchen clean, I’ll have to train you again.”
Grace flinched. She didn’t respond. She didn’t even look up.
I felt something tear inside my chest.
“I’m Linda,” I said quietly. “Grace’s mother.”
A flicker of surprise crossed the woman’s face before disappearing.
“Oh. You’re… from Chicago.” She gave a faint smile. “I’m Judith Reed. My son, Nathan, is your daughter’s husband.”
She said “my son” the way some people say “my property.”
“Grace, get up,” I told my daughter.
She hesitated and looked at Judith, as if asking for permission.
It was then that I realized something was very wrong.
“Get up, my love,” I repeated, my tone firmer.
Grace stood up, making a slight grimace. Up close, I could see the calluses on her hands, the dark circles under her eyes, and the way her shoulders were hunched.
“I didn’t know you were coming, Mom,” she whispered.
“I see,” I said.
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