The first thing my daughter said when I came home early was, “Careful, Dad. It’s wet. I’m almost done.” She was twelve years old, kneeling on our entryway tile with a scrub brush in her hand. In the next room, four women were drinking wine

a bucket of water and wiping the entryway tiles with a cleaning cloth.

She wore yellow rubber gloves, and a small towel marked the section of floor she’d already cleaned.

From the living room came the sound of laughter.

My wife, Tiffany, was sitting with three friends.

There were glasses of wine on the coffee table, plates of crackers, and several books scattered around the sofa.

It looked like an ordinary afternoon gathering.

Except my daughter was still busy cleaning while everyone else relaxed.

“Sweetie, could you bring us some more ice?” someone called.

Maya immediately started putting down her cloth.

Before she could stand, I spoke.

“Don’t worry about that, sweetheart. I’ll get it.”

She turned toward me.

“Dad! You’re home early!” BrowseReference

I smiled.

“Surprise.”

Then I looked at the bucket.

“How long have you been cleaning?”

“Just trying to finish before everyone leaves.”

I noticed she glanced