SHE MADE HIS DAUGHTER CLEAN WHILE HER KIDS RELAXED

The first thing Dad noticed when he came home was the bucket.

I knew because I heard the front door open, then the little scrape of his work bag hitting the floor.

Ava shouted, “Dad!”

I kept my hands in the sink.

He wasn't supposed to be home until Sunday. It was Saturday afternoon, and I still had half the dishes to wash. If I stopped before Vanessa said I could, there would be trouble after he left again.

Water ran over my fingers. It hurt.

Behind me, the television was loud enough to hide the sound of the faucet. Caleb and Ava had spent the afternoon watching a movie under a blanket with Vanessa. I had spent it on my knees with a brush and a bucket of gray water.

I was twelve. I could do chores. Dad had always expected all of us to help.

That afternoon, Caleb had dropped popcorn on the floor I had just cleaned. Vanessa had looked straight at me.

“Get that before somebody steps on it.”

I had picked it up.

When I finally told her I was finished, she pointed toward the kitchen.

“The dishes.”

The sink was full.

I asked why Caleb and Ava didn't have to help.

Vanessa looked at me for a long moment.

“They're my children,” she said.

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

I carried the bucket into the kitchen before she could see me cry.

Now Dad was home early, and I didn't know whether to feel relieved or afraid.

“What happened here?” he asked from the living room.

“Nothing,” Vanessa said. Her voice had turned warm.

I heard Ava giggle as Dad lifted her. He had probably brought her something from the airport. He always brought all three of us little gifts when he traveled.

Then the room went quiet.

“Why is Nia washing all those dishes?” Dad asked.

“She wanted to help,” Vanessa replied.

My hands stopped beneath the water.

Dad came into the kitchen. I saw his reflection in the dark window over the sink. He still wore his work jacket.

“Nia?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you volunteer?”

I looked toward the doorway.

Vanessa stood behind him. Her smile was gone.

I thought of what she would say if Dad left again on Monday. I thought of the last time I'd corrected her in front of him. She hadn't spoken to me at dinner for two days, then told Dad I was upset because I'd been rude.

“Nia,” Dad said softly. “You can tell me.”

I shut off the faucet.

“No.”

He didn't move closer.

“Tell me what happened.”

“She said I couldn't sit down until everything was done.”

Vanessa sighed. “Marcus, she was helping with chores.”

Dad looked at the floor behind him. The mop marks were still damp.

“All afternoon?”

“She needs to learn responsibility.”

Dad called into the living room.

“Caleb, what did you do today?”

Caleb didn't answer at first. He was nine and usually looked at his mother before saying anything that might upset her.

“I watched the movie,” he said.

“And Ava?”

“She watched it with us,” Vanessa said.

Dad turned back to me. “Was it your turn to clean?”

“We don't have turns when you're gone.”

I hadn't meant to say that. It came out before I could stop it.

Vanessa folded her arms.

“That isn't fair.”

I looked down at the sink.

Dad went into the living room. I could hear him asking Caleb another question. The television clicked off.

“Mom makes Nia do this every time you travel,” Caleb said.

“Caleb,” Vanessa warned.

“No, Mom. You do.”

Ava spoke next, so quietly I almost missed it.

“Dad, you should look at Nia's hands.”

I pulled them against my stomach.

The kitchen seemed to get smaller. I could hear Dad's steps as he came back.

“Nia, let me see.”

“It's okay.”

“I'd like to see.”

Vanessa stood in the doorway.

“They're dry from the soap. I've told her to use lotion.”

I kept my hands hidden. I didn't want another argument that ended with everyone looking at me as though I had caused it.

Dad held out one hand, palm up.

I remembered being little and placing my hand in his to cross the street. Back then I never had to wonder which side he was on.

Slowly, I showed him.

The skin across my fingers was red and rough. Two small cracks ran beside my knuckles. The hot water had made them sting so badly I'd been holding the plates by their edges.

Dad stared.

He took my wrists gently, careful not to touch the sore places.

“How long have your hands been like this?”

I couldn't answer.

Vanessa gave a short laugh.

“She never said they were hurting.”

“I did,” I whispered.

Vanessa's eyes snapped toward me.

“You said the soap was too strong. I bought different soap.”

Dad looked at the bottle beside the sink. It was the same one we'd used for months.

He turned off the light above the dishes, though the afternoon sun still filled the kitchen.

“Everyone sit down,” he said.