Their daughter, Maya, listened from the hallway. She was ten years old and already carried the emotional awareness of someone twice her age. Every argument landed on her like a verdict. In her mind, a dangerous thought had begun to take root, one that whispered she was the reason everything felt so hard.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her mother.
“It’s okay,” Maya whispered. “I don’t need anything new. I can manage.”
That embrace was the strongest pillar in the household.
Victor’s sisters, Pauline and Ruth, had presented themselves as saviors months earlier. They owned a fashionable dress shop in a wealthier part of the city and offered to watch Maya after school, insisting it would help everyone. Rosa, stretched to her limit, accepted without question. When survival became the priority, trust often followed blindly.
What Rosa did not know was that behind the elegant displays and smiling greetings, her daughter had become invisible labor.
Every afternoon, Maya went to the shop. Not to learn. Not to play. She worked.
One evening, pale and trembling, she dared to speak.
“Aunt Ruth,” she said softly. “I feel sick today. Could I rest for a bit.”