“If you’re going to stay in this house, then act like the help and finish those dishes before they come down for more drinks.”
Vanessa’s voice sent a chill through me before I even fully stepped into the kitchen. I had returned to Mexico City two days early to surprise my wife, Lucía, after nearly four months away closing a deal in Monterrey. I imagined embracing her, laughing like before. Instead, I found something else.
Lucía stood at the sink, her hands red from hot water, hair tied back carelessly, wearing an old apron over the dress I gave her on our first anniversary. This wasn’t temporary help—it was routine obedience.
Dirty dishes filled the counter. In the corner sat a thin mattress, a cheap fan, and cleaning supplies. My chest tightened.
She didn’t notice me at first.
