He slowly lifted his face toward me, his eyes dimmed by a deep humiliation that never should have belonged to him. His work shirt was stained, his hands were shaking violently, and he looked afraid.
“My dear girl, what on earth are you doing back home already?”
That simple question turned my blood cold in a way the spilled stew never could have.
“What do you mean, what am I doing here? This is my house, Dad. Why in the world are you cleaning the floor on your knees while these people watch you?”
My father kept his eyes lowered to the floor, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“I accidentally dropped the basket, and I did not mean to cause any trouble for anyone in the house.”
I turned toward my mother-in-law, my voice icy and controlled even though fury was burning through me.
“And did it not occur to either of you to hand him a mop or perhaps offer to help? Were you not even slightly ashamed to watch an elderly man scrubbing my floor like a servant?”
