“If your daughter doesn’t finish washing those dishes, neither of us will have dinner tonight,” my mother said, without imagining that I was standing less than ten meters away, listening to everything.
I had returned home to Phoenix two days earlier than planned. The technology conference in Salt Lake City had been canceled, and instead of letting anyone know, I took the first flight because I wanted to surprise my wife, Jessica, and our five-year-old daughter, Olivia.
We lived in a spacious apartment, where I, Zayden Ferris, thirty-four years old and working as a project manager, spent years believing that my home was the only place where everything was in order. I made a huge mistake.
As soon as I opened the door, I was hit by a heavy smell of roast pork, fried food, reheated oil, and expensive perfume. Then I heard loud laughter, clinking glasses, and many unfamiliar voices echoing down the hallway, which was completely covered in guest shoes.
From the living room, I heard my mother, Carmen, bragging loudly to the group.
“My son bought me this brand new dress, saying that now that he’s doing so well, his mother should look good too, and in this apartment, one truly lives like a queen,” she said.
My mother had moved in with us a year earlier from Baltimore, bringing her sixty-two years of age, bad knee pain, and an extraordinary knack for making me feel guilty. When she originally asked to live with us, Jessica agreed without hesitation.
Then changes began that I never wanted to face head-on. Jessica lost weight rapidly and started wearing long sleeves even when it was boiling hot outside, while Olivia, who used to run freely all over the house, would fall dead silent whenever she heard her grandmother’s footsteps.
Whenever I asked what was happening, my mother answered first.
“Your wife is simply too delicate because she doesn’t work outside the home, yet she gets tired of everything,” she would say smoothly.
I chose the most convenient explanation and ignored the signs. I walked into the living room, where almost twenty women were gathered around two large folding tables, with my mother sitting at the head wearing a bright red dress while holding a glass of wine.
“And where is your daughter-in-law?” a lady nearby asked.
Carmen smiled warmly at the guests.
“In the kitchen, right where she belongs, and the little girl is helping her too because you have to teach them properly from a very young age,” my mother replied.
The women in the room laughed in unison. I immediately looked towards the kitchen, where Jessica stood right in front of the sink, drenched in sweat with a giant mountain of dirty dishes piled high in front of her.
What completely took my breath away was standing right next to her. Olivia was standing on tiptoe on a small plastic stool, holding a heavy glass platter that was far too big for her hands.
The steaming hot water was falling directly on her tiny fingers, leaving her hands red, wrinkled, and covered in thick soap detergent froth. She was not crying at all, and that quiet endurance was the absolute worst part of the scene.
A guest carelessly dropped her empty glass on the counter next to Jessica.
“Bring me some cold hibiscus iced tea right now, and cut me a fresh bowl of watermelon,” the woman demanded loudly.
Jessica lowered her head obediently.
“Yes, I will do that right now,” Jessica whispered.
When she turned around, I caught sight of a wet, dirty bandage wrapped around her finger and an open, raw blister glistening on her wrist. I dropped my heavy suitcase onto the floor, letting the loud impact against the smooth marble floor echo through the entire apartment.
The loud laughter instantly died down, my mother turned completely pale, and my young daughter did not run over to hug me when she saw me standing there. She just gripped the heavy plate tighter and whispered softly.
“Dad, please hurry up, because if I don’t finish washing these right now, Grandma said Mom and I aren’t going to get any dinner tonight,” Olivia said.
