The only illumination came from the streetlamp shining through a narrow window.
Her hands were submerged in cold, soapy water. Her fingers were red, and the skin around her nails looked cracked.
Behind her, the washing machine was running.
It was packed with clothes.
I recognized Patricia’s expensive blouses, Bianca’s colorful shirts, and Teresa’s thick towels.
Everyone’s clothes were being washed except my daughter’s.
“Sofia?”
She jerked around so violently that the sweatshirt slipped from her hands.
“Dad?”
Her face changed when she recognized me.
She didn’t smile.
She didn’t run toward me.
She looked terrified.
That frightened me more than the sight of her raw hands.
“What are you doing down here?”
She quickly stood up, knocking the bucket against the wall.
“Nothing. I was just finishing.”
I looked at the washing machine, then at the clothes in the bucket.
“Why aren’t you using the machine?”
She stared at the floor.
