The bathroom door handle jiggled.
Panic exploded in my chest. I snatched the mop from the floor, threw myself backward into the kitchen, and grabbed a dish towel, frantically pretending to wipe down the already spotless granite countertop. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Bruno walked out of the bathroom, casually adjusting his tie. He looked at me, his eyes sweeping over my stained t-shirt, my sweat-dampened hair, and the yellow rubber gloves still gripping the towel. A look of profound amusement and disgust flickered across his face.
“Wow, honey,” he said, walking over and kissing the top of my head—a gesture that now felt like the kiss of Judas. “The house looks incredible today. The ‘girl’ really outdid herself, didn’t she?”
I forced my facial muscles into a mask of compliant docility. I looked up, squeezing my eyes briefly to force back the tears, hoping he would mistake the redness for exhaustion.
“Yes,” I managed to say, my voice tight but steady. “She worked extra hard on the master bedroom today. She said she found some dust behind the nightstands.”
“Excellent,” Bruno smiled, tapping his pocket. “I’ll leave her envelope on the dresser. Make sure she gets it. We wouldn’t want our hard-working maid to get discouraged, would we?”
“No,” I whispered, staring into his cold, calculating eyes. “We wouldn’t.”
The moment Bruno left for his evening tennis match, the submissive housewife persona shattered.
I tore off the yellow rubber gloves, throwing them into the sink as if they were coated in acid. The tears finally came, hot and furious, pouring down my cheeks as I dragged myself upstairs to our bedroom. I dropped to my knees, reached under the bed, and pulled out the old Nike shoebox.
