The room froze. Rachel looked up, and the expression on her face was not relief. It was terror. She tried to stand, failed, and collapsed sideways with a cry that tore straight through me. I was on the floor beside her before anyone else moved, pulling her into my arms while she shook and apologized and begged me not to be angry, not with her, because she was trying, because she knew she had not finished yet.
Her hands were raw, skin split around the knuckles, reeking of chemicals strong enough to sting my eyes. I asked who had told her to do this, who had decided that a woman weeks from labor belonged on her knees, and Susan answered calmly, as if this were a scheduling clarification.
“She wanted to be useful,” Susan said. “Structure helps people like her. Idleness leads to problems.”
I dismissed her immediately. There was no discussion, no courtesy, no room for appeal. The staff scattered in confusion and fear as I carried my wife upstairs, her body limp with exhaustion, her voice barely audible as she asked who would check the list now, who would decide if she had earned rest.