The first thing I saw when I came home after six years was my mother on her knees, scrubbing spilled wine from the marble floor of the house I had bought for her.
The second was my brother stepping over her hand and saying,
“You missed a spot.”
For three seconds, I couldn’t breathe.
My mother had once been impossible to overlook.
Bright scarves.
Loud laughter.
Cinnamon perfume.
Hands that were always moving.
Now she looked twenty years older than sixty-eight.
Her hair was thin and gray.
Her wrists were bruised.
And she was wearing a faded housekeeping uniform.
I stood frozen in the foyer with my suitcase behind me.
“Mom?”
She looked up.
Her eyes moved over my face without recognition.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Guests aren’t supposed to use this entrance.”
My stomach turned to ice.
Then my brother, Darren, appeared at the top of the staircase.
He was wearing the robe I had bought our father before Dad died.
Darren froze when he saw me.
“Claire?”
I smiled.
Barely.
He recovered quickly.
He always did.
“Well, look who finally remembered she has a family. The international superstar herself.”
“I called.”
“Once every few months.”
“I sent money every month.”
His smile tightened.
Then his wife, Brooke, appeared behind him holding a crystal wineglass.
At eleven in the morning.
She looked me over as though I were a delivery driver who had shown up at the wrong address.
“You should’ve told us you were coming,” she said. “The guest suite isn’t ready.”
I looked back at my mother.
“Why is Mom dressed like that?”
Darren laughed.
“She likes helping around the house. Gives her something to do.”
Mom lowered her head.
Then started scrubbing again.
I crouched beside her.
“Mom, it’s me. Claire.”
She flinched when I touched her shoulder.
“No,” she whispered. “Claire lives far away.”
Something inside me broke.
But I didn’t shout.
That was what Darren expected.
