Vanessa eyed her with open disdain. “You stay in the back quarters. Sundays off. That’s it.”
Teresa needed the paycheck. “Understood.”
On her first day, she met Maya.
The girl sat alone in the kitchen, eating cold pasta straight from the pot. Her eyes were red. Her body tense.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Teresa said softly. “I’m Teresa. What’s your name?”
Maya looked startled, like kindness was unfamiliar. “Maya.”
“That food’s cold. Let me warm it.”
“It’s okay,” Maya whispered.
Teresa reheated it anyway—adding cheese, oil, seasoning.
Maya ate slowly, like good food was something new.
Teresa knew then: something was deeply wrong.
Over the next few days, she noticed everything.
Maya never removed her sweatshirt—even in the heat. She walked carefully, gripping railings. She moved like someone much older.
On Wednesday, Teresa baked a carrot cake.
“May I have some?” Maya asked timidly.
“Of course, my love. I made it for you.”
Maya smiled as she ate. “My mom used to make this. For my birthday.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“Last month. I turned nine.”
“And did you celebrate?”
Maya shook her head. “Dad was away. Vanessa said birthdays waste money.”
Teresa’s chest tightened.
Then Vanessa came home early with friends.