It was late afternoon in the grand dining room of the Whitmore estate, a sprawling mansion tucked away on the outskirts of the city.
The family and their guests gathered for tea, laughter bubbling around the room.
I noticed a woman quietly scrubbing the dishes in the kitchen adjacent to us.
She wore a simple maid’s uniform, inconspicuous and unseen by most.
Occasionally, she received an amused glance or whispered joke.
They all laughed, mocking the “maid” who toiled away without a word.
But then her husband entered unexpectedly.
He scanned the room before his voice cut sharply through the chatter.
“Where’s my wife?”
Suddenly, the laughter died down.
