Maria was kneeling on the kitchen floor.
Her cleaning cart sat abandoned nearby, the mop leaning uselessly against the cabinet. She wasn’t scrubbing, wasn’t tidying, wasn’t performing any of the tasks he paid her to do.
She was praying.
Her hands were pressed together, head bowed, eyes closed.
In front of her, seated on a small rug, were two little girls—twins, no more than two years old. Their hair was neatly brushed, their tiny dresses clean though clearly worn. Each child mirrored Maria’s posture, hands clasped, faces solemn with the kind of seriousness only children possess when imitating something sacred.
Before each girl sat a small plate.
Not a meal. Just a few pieces of cut fruit.
And they were praying over it.
Mr. Whitaker froze in the doorway, suddenly feeling like an intruder in his own home.
For illustrative purposes only
For a moment, none of them noticed him. The house was so quiet he could hear the hum of the refrigerator and the faint rhythm of Maria’s whispered words, too soft to make out.
