Chapter 3: What Happened When I Wasn't Home
Camille didn't sit down.
She remained near the kitchen doorway, looking toward the hallway every few seconds as if Jessica might reappear and demand to know what she was saying.
I pulled out a chair from the dining table.
"Camille, sit. Take your time.""
She shook her head.
"I'd rather stand, sir.""
"All right. But nobody is going to punish you for telling me the truth.""
She glanced at my mother.
Mrs. Johnson was sitting quietly in the armchair, her hands folded in her lap. She looked uncomfortable, as if Camille's willingness to speak had somehow made the situation her responsibility.
"Camille," I said gently, "whatever you're about to tell me, you don't have to protect anybody from the truth.""
She looked down at her shoes.
"Mrs. Johnson comes over every Tuesday and Thursday when you're working late. Sometimes on Saturdays, too.""
I nodded.
I knew my mother visited regularly. She had always been close to me, and since my father died, she enjoyed spending time with family.
"That's right.""
Camille continued.
"At first, everything seemed fine. Mrs. Johnson would bring food, sit with me while I finished my work, and sometimes help me fold towels. She was always kind.""
My mother gave a small shrug.
"I just like keeping busy.""
Camille smiled faintly.
"I know, ma'am.""
Then her expression grew serious again.
"But after a few months, Mrs. Jessica started asking her to do more things.""
I felt my jaw tighten.
"What kind of things?""
"Cleaning the kitchen after lunch. Sorting the laundry. Wiping the counters. Sometimes washing the windows in the dining room.""
My mother immediately interrupted.
"David, I wasn't asked to do all that every time.""
I turned toward her.
"Mom, please. Let Camille finish.""
She closed her mouth.
Camille continued carefully.
"At first, I thought Mrs. Johnson was helping because she wanted to. But when I offered to take over, Mrs. Jessica told me to leave it alone.""
"What exactly did she say?""
Camille hesitated.
"She said, 'Your job is to do what I tell you. If Mrs. Johnson wants to help, don't interfere.''"
I stared at her.
Those words sounded nothing like the woman Jessica was when I first met her.
Back then, she had volunteered at a community kitchen every Thanksgiving. She remembered people's birthdays and brought groceries to an elderly neighbor who lived alone.
Or perhaps that was only the part of her I had been allowed to see.
I rubbed a hand over my beard.
"Did my mother ever complain to you?""
Camille shook her head.
"Never. She always said she didn't mind.""
My mother looked toward the window.
"Because I didn't want to make trouble.""
I turned to her.
"Mom, why didn't you tell me?""
She rubbed her thumb against the side of her hand.
"Because you work hard, David. You come home tired. You have your responsibilities, and I didn't want to add to them.""
"You're not a responsibility I need to get rid of.""
Her eyes lifted toward mine.
"Baby, I know that.""
"Then why did you feel like you had to keep this from me?""
She didn't answer immediately.
Outside, a car passed along the street. Somewhere in the house, the refrigerator hummed.
Finally, my mother spoke.
"Because every time I came here, I hoped things would get better. I thought perhaps your wife was stressed. Perhaps she had too much on her plate. I kept telling myself that if I helped a little, she might feel less overwhelmed.""
I looked at her tired hands.
"And did it get better?""
She gave me a sad smile.
"No, sweetheart.""
Two simple words.
They hurt more than all the excuses Jessica had offered.
I stood and walked toward the kitchen. The dishes were still piled beside the sink. A thin line of soap had dried along the edge of the counter.
I could picture my mother standing there alone, washing plate after plate while the sound of laughter drifted in from the next room.
Then I remembered something else.
For months, Jessica had been telling me how much she appreciated my mother.
"Your mom is so helpful," she would say over dinner.
"She insists on doing things her own way," she would add with a laugh.
And I had smiled.
I had mistaken my mother's silence for contentment because it was easier than asking questions.
I returned to the living room.
"Camille, thank you for telling me.""
She nodded, but her expression remained troubled.
"There's one more thing.""
I waited.
"Mrs. Jessica has been telling people that Mrs. Johnson needs something to do during the day. She says it's good for her to stay active.""
My mother looked up sharply.
"What?""
Camille turned toward her.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't want to upset you.""
My mother's lips parted, but no words came.
I felt my hands curl at my sides.
Jessica had taken my mother's kindness and turned it into a justification for making her work.
"Did she say that to anyone else?""
Camille nodded.
"Her friends. Sometimes when they call.""
I looked toward the hallway.
"Did she ever say anything about my mother being a burden?""
Camille's silence answered before her words did.
"She said it was a lot of work having family over so often.""
My mother slowly lowered her eyes.
I crossed the room and knelt beside her chair.
"Mom, look at me.""
She hesitated, then did.
"You are never a burden in my home. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.""
Her chin trembled slightly.
"I know you love me, David.""
"Then let me show you.""
She reached for my hand.
For a moment, we sat there quietly, the noise of the afternoon finally gone.
Then my mother whispered something I wasn't prepared to hear.
"Your wife told me you were under a lot of pressure at work.""
I frowned.
"What does that have to do with anything?""
"She said you were trying to save money. She told me you didn't need any extra problems at home.""
I stared at her.
"What did she mean by extra problems?""
My mother looked toward Camille, then back at me.
"She said I should help where I could because you had enough to worry about already.""
A cold feeling settled in my stomach.
Jessica had used my work, my responsibilities, and my concern for my family to persuade my mother to remain quiet.
I rose slowly.
"Mom, did she ever ask you for money?""
My mother looked startled.
"No.""
"Did she ever ask you to pay for anything in this house?""
"No, David. Nothing like that.""
I believed her.
But I was beginning to understand that the dishes were only one part of something larger.
I walked toward the hallway.
"Jessica, we need to talk.""
No answer.
I knocked on our bedroom door.
"Jessica?""
After several seconds, she opened it.
She had changed out of her burgundy blouse and was wearing a loose gray T-shirt. Her makeup was still perfect, but her expression had hardened into the cool, defensive look she used whenever she believed someone had challenged her authority.
"What now?""
I kept my voice low.
"Camille has told me what has been happening when I'm not home.""
Jessica's face changed for a fraction of a second.
Then she folded her arms.
"Oh, so now you're listening to the housekeeper over your own wife.""
"I'm listening to both of you. That's why I'm asking you directly.""
"Fine. Ask.""
"Have you been making my mother clean this house when she visits?""
Jessica scoffed.
"Making her? David, she's a grown woman. She can make her own decisions.""
"That's not an answer.""
"She likes helping!""
"She told me she was afraid of causing problems for us.""
Jessica rolled her eyes.
"She worries too much. That's not my fault.""
I stared at her.
"You knew she was worried, and you still let her work for an hour while you entertained your friends?""
Jessica's cheeks flushed.
"Oh, here we go again. You're never going to let this go, are you?""
"Not until I understand what happened.""
She stepped back and pointed toward the hallway.
"Then go ask your mother. She's the one who keeps volunteering.""
I didn't move.
"Jessica, this is your chance to tell me the truth.""
She stared at me for several seconds.
Then she said, "The truth is that your mother comes here constantly, and I have to accommodate her every time. I was trying to make things easier.""
"By making her wash your dishes?""
"By giving her something useful to do!""
The words hung between us.
Jessica seemed to realize what she had said, but instead of correcting herself, she lifted her chin.
"Look, I didn't insult her. I didn't hit her. I didn't do anything terrible. You're acting like I committed a crime.""
I shook my head.
"Respect isn't measured by whether you've committed a crime.""
She turned away and picked up her phone from the dresser.
"I am not having this conversation anymore.""
I stepped back from the doorway.
"Neither am I. Not tonight.""
Her shoulders relaxed slightly, as though she believed the argument was finally over.
But I wasn't finished.
I returned to the living room, where my mother and Camille were still sitting in silence.
"Mom, I'm taking you home after we eat something. You need to rest.""
My mother shook her head.
"You don't have to do that.""
"I want to.""
I went into the kitchen and began clearing a small space on the counter. Camille quietly offered to prepare something simple, and I thanked her.
For the first time that afternoon, my mother sat without trying to find something else to do.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message had appeared on the screen from an unfamiliar number.
I opened it.
The message contained a photograph of my mother standing at the sink in our kitchen, washing dishes.
The photograph had been taken from the living room.
Beneath it were nine words.
*"David, you need to know what your wife says about your mother.""*
I stared at the screen.
May you like
Then another message arrived.
*"And there's something she doesn't want you to discover.""*