Sunlight spilled across polished marble, the floor slick with gray water, and in the center of it my wife knelt on bare knees that were visibly swollen, her belly heavy and low beneath a loose shirt darkened with sweat. She scrubbed the floor with a stiff brush, her body rocking with effort, whispering apologies under her breath as if the house itself demanded repentance.
In the sitting room beyond her, seated comfortably with crossed legs, was the household supervisor Susan Miller, holding a cup of tea and watching daytime television. Another staff member laughed quietly at something on screen, neither of them reacting to the pregnant woman scrubbing stone a few feet away.
Susan spoke without turning her head. “You missed a section near the staircase, Rachel. If it dries unevenly you will need to redo everything tomorrow.”
Rachel nodded, murmured that she was sorry, and shifted forward. Her knee slipped slightly, and I felt something fracture inside my chest.
“What is going on here,” I demanded, my voice louder than I intended, sharper than the walls deserved.
