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

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were relaxing.

And why she’d looked toward Tiffany before accepting my suggestion to take a break.

Then Tiffany appeared in the doorway.

“Greg! I thought you weren’t coming home until eight.”

“My flight was canceled, so I drove.”

She smiled.

“Well, that’s a surprise.”

I nodded toward Maya.

“She’s been working hard.”

Tiffany laughed lightly.

“Oh, she’s just helping me get everything ready. You know how much I like having the house organized.”

Before I could answer, one of the guests stood up.

She was wearing a blue cardigan.

I recognized her immediately.

June Callahan.

Maya’s seventh-grade English teacher.

She looked at my daughter.

“Maya?”

Maya smiled politely.

“Hello, Mrs. Callahan.”

June seemed confused.

She looked toward Tiffany.

Then back at Maya.

“Tiffany, I thought you said the girl helping today was a teenager from the neighborhood.”

Tiffany’s smile faded.

“Oh, I must not have explained that properly.”

June frowned

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