The cold kitchen water splashed over Maya’s red, raw knuckles as she scrubbed the thick grease off the roasting pan. The heavy infant carrier strapped across her chest weighed down on her shoulders, the sleeping baby inside letting out soft, rhythmic sighs against her collarbone. Maya had been on her feet since six in the morning, her body aching, her throat tight with unspilled tears.

Victoria: Scrub harder, Maya! You think a suburban Dallas house cleans itself while your father is out earning millions? Look at these spots!

Maya: I’m trying! I’ve been scrubbing this pan for twenty minutes, Victoria. Please, the baby is sleeping, stop yelling at me.

Victoria: Don’t you dare tone-police me in my own home, you ungrateful little brat! Your father built this estate, and I run it. You live under my roof for free, carrying that bastard child, so you will do as you’re told!

Maya: He’s not a bastard! He’s your grandson’s half-brother! And my father gave me permission to stay here while I finished my online degree!

Victoria: Permission? Your father listens to whatever lies you feed him. But while he’s at the corporate office, I’m the boss here. You will clean every dish, sweep every tile, and keep your mouth shut, or I’ll have you threw out on the street before nightfall!

Maya: You know I have nowhere else to go! My savings are gone! Why do you hate me so much?

Victoria: Because you remind him of his dead wife! Because every time he looks at you, he forgets that I’m the woman who owns his heart now! Now finish those dishes before I lose my patience completely!

Victoria stepped closer, towering over the shaking girl, her face contorted in pure malice as she raised a finger inches from Maya’s wet face. Maya leaned back against the sink, tears blurring her vision as the baby stirred against her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could vanish, utterly unaware of the front door unlocking down the marble hallway.