You step into the back kitchen and the heat hits you first, thick with smoke, soap, and humiliation. The room is cramped, lit by one buzzing bulb that flickers like it’s embarrassed to watch. Then you see her.
Camila is hunched over a metal sink, sleeves rolled up, hands raw and red as she scrubs greasy pans that weren’t even used by her. Her hair is tied back with a plain elastic, and her dress, the one you bought her last year, is stained at the hem like she’s been kneeling on the floor. She doesn’t look like the woman you married.
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