“It’s a surprise,” I replied, keeping my voice firm. “I wanted to see my daughter.”
Brenda was still on her knees, head bowed, not daring to look at me. Her hands were trembling as she held the dirty rag.
“Brenda, get up,” I said softly.
She hesitated. She glanced at Carol as if asking for permission. That broke my heart.
“Brenda,” I repeated, this time more firmly. “Get up, honey.”
She slowly stood up. Her knees were red. The old torn dress was loose on her, as if she had lost a lot of weight. When she finally looked at me, I saw something in her eyes that I had never seen before.
Shame.
“Mommy,” she whispered. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I see you didn’t,” I said.
And then I looked directly at Carol.
“May I speak with my daughter alone?”
Carol smiled. But it wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of someone who knows they have power and enjoys using it.
“Of course. This is her house too. Well, technically it’s my house, but Brenda lives here. You can talk in the living room. I have things to do.”
She walked out of the kitchen, her heels echoing on the marble, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and arrogance.
I went up to Brenda and took her hands. They were rough, full of calluses. Hands that had worked too much.
“What is going on here?” I asked in a low voice.
“Nothing, Mommy. Everything is fine.”
“Don’t lie to me, Brenda. I saw you on your knees. I heard what she said to you.”
She looked away.
“It’s just that Carol is very demanding about cleaning. She likes everything to be perfect. And I… I live in her house. It’s the least I can do.”
“The least you can do? Where is Robert? Why isn’t he here defending you?”
“He’s at the company, Mommy. He works a lot. The family business is big. He has a lot of responsibilities.”
Something in her voice sounded rehearsed, as if she had repeated those words many times, trying to convince herself.
“And you? Don’t you work?”
She bit her lip.
“Carol says that a good wife takes care of the house, that my job is to look after Robert and keep everything in order.”
“But you studied graphic design. You are so talented. Don’t you design anymore?”
“I haven’t had time, Mommy.”
A lie. I knew it at that moment. But I didn’t pressure her. Not yet.
“Where are the sheets I gave you?” I asked suddenly. “The ones I embroidered for your wedding.”
Her face fell.
“They’re… they’re stored away.”
“May I see them?”
“Mommy, it’s just that—”
“I want to see them, Brenda.”
She led me to their room. We went up a marble staircase with a golden railing. The house was huge, ostentatious, but there was something empty about it, as if it were just a beautiful shell without a soul.
When we entered their bedroom, I was surprised by how small it was compared to the rest of the house. There was barely enough room for a queen-size bed and a small closet. There was no decoration, no pictures of her and Robert together, nothing personal.
It was like a maid’s room.
“The sheets are here,” she said, opening the closet.
But when she pulled out the box, I saw that it was crumpled, with moisture stains. She opened it carefully, and what I saw broke me inside.
The sheets I had embroidered with so much love, with every stitch thought for her, were torn, ripped in several places, and dirty.
“What happened?” I asked, feeling a lump in my throat.
“Carol said they were too cheap for this house, that they didn’t match the décor. I used them for a while, but Robert spilled red wine on them one day, and Carol said they were useless, that I should throw them away.”
“And why didn’t you throw them away?”
