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<\/span><\/a><\/p>\nI lived abroad for almost fifteen years. I worked as an accountant in an office, saved every penny, and lived with one single thought \u2014 to secure my daughter\u2019s future. In our hometown she had a family: a husband, children. For them I bought a large house, put everything in my daughter\u2019s name, and was sure that she was living there peacefully and happily.<\/p>\n
All those years we talked on the phone, but the conversations were always short. My daughter said everything was fine, that she was tired, that she had a lot to do. I attributed it to everyday life, to the children, to life itself. I missed her and dreamed of the day I would return home.<\/p>\n
When I finally arrived, I decided not to tell anyone. I wanted to make a surprise. I imagined opening the door with my own key and saying, \u201cSurprise! I\u2019m home.\u201d But the surprise was waiting for me.<\/p>\n
I slowly opened the door of the house I had bought myself. And I froze.<\/p>\n
In the spacious living room, on her knees, my daughter was washing the floors. She was wearing a blue maid\u2019s uniform, and over it a dirty apron with the words: \u201cMaid of this house.\u201d Her hands were shaking. On her wrists I immediately noticed bruises \u2014 the kind that appear when someone grabs you too hard.<\/p>\n