It was a tiny movement.
Almost nothing.
But I noticed.
Why would my twelve-year-old daughter need to look at my wife before accepting my permission to stop cleaning?
“Maya,” I said gently, “put the brush down. You can take a break.”
She hesitated another second.
Then nodded.
I helped her to her feet.
Her gloves were damp, and there were faint marks on her knees from pressing against the hard floor.
I looked toward the living room.
Four adults had been sitting comfortably drinking wine while my daughter scrubbed the entrance.
I didn’t yet know what to make of it.
But I knew I didn’t like the expression that had crossed Maya’s face when I told her she could stop.
Tiffany hurried into the hallway with a wineglass in her hand.
“Greg! What are you doing home already?”
“My flight was canceled, so I rented a car.”
“Oh!”
Her gaze
