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

rolls, the kind Maya had loved ever since she was little.

I imagined opening the front door, watching her face light up, and suggesting we go out for dinner.

I decided not to tell Tiffany I was driving home.

After several days away, surprising my family seemed like a wonderful idea.

At 4:35 that afternoon, I unlocked our front door.

The first thing I noticed was laughter coming from the living room.

Then I heard Tiffany speaking.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been saying. Sometimes young people just need a little structure. They have to learn that responsibilities come first.”

I stepped inside.

And stopped walking.

My daughter was kneeling on the entryway floor.

A gray bucket sat beside her.

She wore oversized yellow rubber gloves and was scrubbing the tiles with a small, stiff brush.

A damp towel had been placed near the doorway to mark the wet area.