Around six p.m., Sable came home. She walked straight into the living room, heels clicking on the hardwood, and dropped her purse on the glass coffee table. A second later, she was on a video call, her voice shifting from ice to syrup.
“God, I’m exhausted,” she cooed, laughing. “But it helps having a free housemaid around.”
A woman’s laughter echoed from her phone.
I froze mid‑motion, the dish towel slipping from my hand. I wanted to step into the room and remind her that the so‑called free maid had been the woman who’d signed the very first check for the down payment on this house.
Instead, I bent down, picked up the towel, folded it neatly, and kept wiping the same spot on the counter.
She thought I didn’t hear her.
I let her think that.
When night fell, I sat in my small room under the garage, lit only by the weak glow of a yellow lamp. The sound of the TV drifted down from the living room—laughter, clinking silverware, cartoons.
I didn’t feel angry. I just felt empty, like someone had scooped out the inside of my chest and left a quiet, hollow space.
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