You step into the back kitchen and the heat hits you first, thick with smoke, soap, and humiliation. The room is cramped, lit by one buzzing bulb that flickers like it’s embarrassed to watch. Then you see her.
Camila is hunched over a metal sink, sleeves rolled up, hands raw and red as she scrubs greasy pans that weren’t even used by her. Her hair is tied back with a plain elastic, and her dress, the one you bought her last year, is stained at the hem like she’s been kneeling on the floor. She doesn’t look like the woman you married.
She looks like someone they broke down one insult at a time.
A stack of pots towers beside her like a punishment. Beside that, a plastic chair sits empty, as if they even took away the right to rest. You watch her shoulders tense with every scrape, like she’s bracing for a slap that never comes but always might.
“Camilinha!” a voice barks from the doorway behind her.
Patrícia. Your sister. The same person you trusted to “help” because she said Camila was “too naive” for money. Patrícia leans against the doorframe in a designer dress, lipstick perfect, boredom on her face.
“Don’t forget the serving trays,” she says, as if talking to an employee. “And when you’re done, clean the patio. There’s grease everywhere.”
Camila swallows and nods without turning. “Yes,” she murmurs, voice small.
Your stomach flips. Your hands clench so hard you feel your nails cut your palm. The rage arrives so fast it’s almost clean, like someone poured gasoline into your veins and lit a match.
