That intention lasted until she met Diane Porter. Diane was the household manager, a woman who treated authority like armor. She gave instructions sharply and monitored every movement with suspicion. On Elena’s first day, she handed her a list of duties and made one rule clear.
“You handle the cleaning. You do not involve yourself with the children. That is not your place.”
Elena nodded. She always nodded. During the day, she scrubbed floors and polished surfaces while Diane supervised from a distance. At night, when the house was meant to sleep, the crying began. Elena heard it while washing dishes, while emptying trash, while turning off lights. It was the sound of fear being swallowed, and it tightened something deep in her chest.
She recognized that sound. One evening, unable to ignore it any longer, Elena climbed the stairs slowly, her heart pounding with each step. She paused outside the bedroom and looked inside.
The girls were sitting upright in bed, arms wrapped around each other, tears sliding silently down their faces. The room was pristine, filled with expensive toys arranged neatly on shelves, but it felt cold. Untouched. Like a showroom rather than a refuge.
