The first thing I saw when I came home after six years was my mother on her knees, scrubbing spilled wine from the marble floor of the house I had bought for her.

The second was my brother stepping over her hand and saying,

“You missed a spot.”

For three seconds, I couldn’t breathe.

My mother had once been impossible to overlook.

Bright scarves.

Loud laughter.

Cinnamon perfume.

Hands that were always moving.

Now she looked twenty years older than sixty-eight.

Her hair was thin and gray.

Her wrists were bruised.

And she was wearing a faded housekeeping uniform.

I stood frozen in the foyer with my suitcase behind me.

“Mom?”

She looked up.

Her eyes moved over my face without recognition.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Guests aren’t supposed to use this entrance.”

My stomach turned to ice.

Then my brother, Darren, appeared at the top of the staircase.