In the backyard, Phedra was on her knees picking up pieces of a shattered plate with her bare hands. Her head had been shaved. Her cheekbones were painfully visible, and a bucket of filthy water stood beside her feet.
“Pick up the pieces properly, Phedra,” my mother, Selina, called from the living room. “If someone cuts themselves, I’m taking it out of your food.”
I froze behind the fence, suitcase still in my hand.
Nobody knew I had come home.
A temporary shutdown at the metalworking plant in Calgary had given us several unexpected weeks off. Most of my coworkers went to see their families. I bought a ticket that same night because I wanted to surprise my wife.
For four years, I had worked twelve-hour shifts, eaten reheated meals in a shop that smelled of scorched metal, and endured winters cold enough to split my lips. Every month, I sent between two and three thousand dollars to Selina’s bank account.
That money was supposed to finish the house, secure our future, and care for Phedra while I was away.
Altogether, I had sent almost a hundred thousand dollars, plus a bonus every December.
