Marcus stood there for a second, waiting for someone to see him.
Finally his brother glanced over.
“Hey, man.”
“Hey.”
“Long day?”
Marcus nodded.
“Very.”
His mother turned around.
“There you are!”
She smiled brightly.
“We were wondering when you were coming home.”
Marcus smiled back automatically.
“Traffic.”
His mother waved toward the kitchen.
“Elena’s in there. She insisted on cleaning everything up.”
Marcus frowned.
“Cleaning what up?”
“Dinner.”
His mother laughed.
“You know Elena. She wouldn’t let anyone else do it.”
Marcus looked toward the kitchen.
He couldn’t see his wife from where he stood.
But suddenly he didn’t like the sound of what his mother had said.
He walked down the hallway.
The laughter behind him continued.
Then he entered the kitchen.
And stopped.
Elena was standing at the sink.
Alone.
She was wearing the same loose maternity dress she’d been wearing that morning when Marcus left.
Her hair was tied loosely behind her head.
Her shoulders were hunched.
Her face looked exhausted.
And her feet…
Marcus stared at them.
Her ankles were so swollen that the skin looked painfully tight.
She was eight months pregnant.
She should have been resting.
Instead, she was standing in front of a sink filled almost to the top with dirty dishes.
Pots.
Pans.
Plates.
Glasses.
Serving bowls.
There must have been enough dishes for fifteen people.
Elena was washing them one at a time.
