Chapter 1
My hands hurt so badly that I could barely hold the mop.
But I knew what would happen if I stopped.
"Keep moving, Maya!"
Denise's voice cut across the living room.
I looked toward the cream-colored sofa.
My stepmother was sitting comfortably with her legs crossed, eating chicken and rice from a white plate.
The television played quietly behind her.
Sunlight poured through the windows.
Everything looked beautiful.
Everything looked normal.
Except me.
I was nine years old, barefoot on the cold marble floor, wearing my mustard-yellow T-shirt and dark-green skirt.
My braids were coming loose.
My back ached.
And my stomach hurt because I hadn't eaten since breakfast.
"Denise, can I please sit down?"
She didn't even look at me.
"Did you finish the floor?"
I shook my head.
"Then why are you talking?"
I swallowed my tears.
"I've been cleaning all morning."
She placed another piece of chicken into her mouth.
"And you're still not finished."
I looked at the blue bucket beside me.
The water had turned gray.
My fingers were wrinkled.
There was a small blister forming near my thumb.
I tried switching hands.
The mop slipped.
Denise slammed her fork onto her plate.
"Girl, don't make me repeat myself."
I grabbed the handle again.
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry doesn't clean floors."
I pushed the mop across the rug's edge.
My shoulders trembled.
I wanted my daddy.
I wanted him to come home and scoop me into his arms the way he used to.
Before Denise moved in.
Before she became his wife.
Before our house stopped feeling like mine.
Daddy worked long hours managing construction projects.
He left before sunrise most mornings.
Sometimes he didn't get home until dinner.
He always kissed my forehead before leaving.
He always promised to call.
But Denise had started taking my phone away during the day.
She said children didn't need to bother their fathers at work.
I believed her at first.
Then I became afraid to question her.
"Maya!"
I jumped.
Denise was pointing toward the floor beside the coffee table.
"You missed a spot."
I stared at the tiny mark.
"I'll get it."
"Now."
I bent forward.
Pain shot through my back.
I gritted my teeth.
Then I heard something.
A car door.
Footsteps on the porch.
Keys turning in the front door.
My heart jumped.
Daddy.
He wasn't supposed to be home until six.
I looked toward Denise.
For the first time all morning, she stopped eating.
The front door opened.
Dad stepped inside wearing his olive-green button-up shirt.
He carried his work bag over one shoulder.
"Daddy!"
I almost dropped the mop.
He smiled automatically.
"Hey, princess."
Then his smile disappeared.
His eyes moved from my face to the mop.
Then to the dirty bucket.
Then to Denise sitting on the sofa with her lunch.
He stopped walking.
"What's going on?"
I lowered my head.
Denise recovered quickly.
"Nothing, honey. Maya's helping around the house."
Dad stared at me.
"Helping?"
His voice sounded strange.
He walked closer.
"Maya, why are you cleaning the entire living room?"
I opened my mouth.
But Denise answered.
"Because she needs discipline."
Dad turned toward her.
"Discipline for what?"
"Being lazy."
My face burned.
I wanted to tell him that wasn't true.
But Denise was watching me.
I knew that look.
The warning.
The promise that things would become worse after Dad left.
So I stayed quiet.
Dad looked down at my trembling hands.
Then at the wet floor.
"How long has she been doing this?"
Denise shrugged.
"A little while."
I stared at the mop.
A little while.
That was what she called six hours.
Dad stepped toward me.
"Sweetheart, give me that."
I hesitated.
Denise immediately sat straighter.
"Marcus, don't interfere."
Dad ignored her.
He gently took the mop from my hands.
My fingers didn't want to straighten.
I had been gripping the handle too long.
Dad noticed.
His face changed.
"Maya?"
I tried to smile.
"I'm okay."
He looked at my hands again.
"Baby, you're shaking."
Tears filled my eyes.
"She said I couldn't rest until the whole room was clean."
The words came out before I could stop them.
Denise stood.
"Maya!"
I flinched.
Dad saw it.
He slowly turned toward his wife.
"Don't shout at her."
Denise folded her arms.
"She lives here. She can work."
Dad stared at her.
"She's nine years old, Denise."
"And?"
He looked stunned.
"She's a child."
Denise pointed toward me.
"Stop babying her. That's why she thinks she can get away with everything."
I took a step backward.
Dad turned immediately.
"Maya, come here."
I walked toward him.
He knelt in front of me.
His large hands gently held mine.
I winced.
He looked closely.
My palms were red.
One finger had a small cut.
The blister near my thumb had broken.
Dad's jaw tightened.
"Did this happen from cleaning?"
I nodded.
He looked into my eyes.
"Has Denise been making you do this when I'm gone?"
My heart began beating fast.
I looked toward my stepmother.
She was standing beside the sofa.
Her eyes were fixed on me.
I knew what she wanted.
She wanted me to lie.
The way I always did.
The way she'd taught me.
But Daddy was holding my hands.
And for the first time in months, someone was looking at me like my pain mattered.
I slowly nodded.
Dad's expression changed.
Not suddenly.
Slowly.
The way thunderclouds gather before a storm.
He released my hands carefully.
Then stood.
"We're talking about this now."
Denise laughed nervously.
"Marcus, you're being ridiculous."
He didn't move.
"You made my daughter clean until her hands were injured."
"She's exaggerating."
Dad's voice grew colder.
"Then why is she afraid to look at you?"
Denise opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
I could feel my heart pounding.
Daddy was angry.
Really angry.
But there was something he didn't know.
Something worse than the cleaning.
Something I had promised Denise I would never tell.
I reached for his sleeve.
"Daddy?"
He immediately turned.
"Yes, baby?"
My lips trembled.
"Cleaning isn't the worst thing."
His expression froze.
"What do you mean?"
I looked toward Denise.
Her face had gone completely pale.
I swallowed.
May you like
Then whispered the words that changed everything.
"There's something she makes me do when you're not home."
