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

immediately dropped to the bucket.

Then to Maya.

Then back to me.

“We’re having book club,” she explained with a cheerful smile that seemed a little too quick.

“I can see that.”

She glanced toward the wet tiles.

“Maya’s been helping us get the house in order.”

I nodded.

“Looks like she’s been working pretty hard.”

Tiffany laughed lightly.

“You know how I feel about children contributing to the household. She actually likes being useful.”

I was about to respond when one of the women leaned forward.

She was wearing a blue cardigan, and I recognized her immediately.

June Callahan.

Maya’s seventh-grade English teacher.

I’d met her briefly during a school conference.

June was looking directly at my daughter.

Her brow furrowed.

“Maya?”

My daughter straightened.

“Hello, Mrs. Callahan.”

June’s eyes widened.

She looked at the rubber gloves.

The bucket.

The scrub brush.

Then Tiffany.

“Wait a minute. That’s Maya?”