And then I saw her.

My mother.

My 62-year-old mother was kneeling on the hot stone patio with a bucket of soapy water beside her.

She wore oversized, worn-out clothes.

Her hair was pulled back.

Both hands were red from scrubbing grease off the outdoor kitchen counters.

For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.

“Mom.”

She stopped.

The brush slipped from her fingers and fell into the bucket.

She slowly turned around.

“Natalie?”

She tried to stand.

Her knees buckled slightly.

I rushed forward and caught her.

“My baby,” she whispered.

Then she started crying.

“You’re home.”

I held her.

But I couldn’t stop looking at her.

Her knees.

Her hands.

Her clothes.

Her thinner frame.

This wasn’t the woman I had imagined coming home to.

I pulled back.

“What is happening here?”

She lowered her eyes.

“Why are you cleaning like this?”

She didn’t answer.

“And why did Julian call you the maid?”

That was when the tears came harder.

I helped her sit down.

“Mom, tell me what happened.”