I took the job as a live-in maid at a private estate because the salary equaled three months of supermarket wages and my mother was running out of time. The doctors had been clear; without the operation she would not last much longer. The mansion was vast and neglected, and the owner’s daughter Eve treated me with immediate, sharp contempt, criticizing every surface I cleaned and reminding me that this was not a cheap hostel. I kept my head down and worked. On the second evening the owner himself, Miles, finally came down for dinner. When I twisted my ankle slightly he steadied me by the shoulder and pushed up my sleeve. On the left side of my neck sat a heart-shaped birthmark. His eyes widened. “I have the same one,” he said. “Identical. Who’s your father?” I told him I did not know; my mother had never spoken of him.

After that evening the birthmark was never mentioned again, but Eve’s hostility intensified. Small disasters began: a pie that burned after I had turned the oven off, red tablecloths ruined with bleach, a box of crystal glasses found smashed. Each time Eve appeared with a cold smile and docked my pay or scolded me for carelessness. When I finally confronted her she told me I did not belong and that I was merely one of her father’s temporary emotional mistakes.