“I can still see gray in the grout, Ella,” Margaret’s voice cut through the heavy air.

Ella didn’t look up. She kept her head down, her small hand clutching a stiff-bristled toothbrush that had seen better days. “Yes, Stepmother.”

Margaret stood by the granite island, the very picture of suburban perfection. She wore a crisp floral sundress, her hair sprayed into an immobile helmet of curls. In her hand, a glass of iced tea sweated cool droplets onto the counter. The ice clinked—a musical, taunting sound in the silent kitchen.

“Your father comes home in three days,” Margaret said, taking a slow sip. “If he sees this house in shambles, he’ll know exactly what kind of girl you’ve become while he was away. Lazy. Ungrateful.”

Ella scrubbed harder. The bristles rasped against the stone. I’m not lazy, she thought, though she didn’t dare say it aloud. I’m just tired.