The acrid smell of detergent burned my nostrils as I knelt on the cold wooden floor, scrubbing the same spot over and over again.

My knees were killing me, but stopping was out of the question. I’d learned that a long time ago. In this house, resting was considered laziness, and laziness was always punished.

The bucket next to me was half empty, the water already grey. My hands were raw, chapped, and trembling, but I kept going. I had cleaned this floor so many times that I could trace every scratch with my eyes closed.

On the sofa behind me, my stepdaughter Laura and her mother were comfortably settled, legs crossed, a cup of coffee in hand. They were laughing softly, engrossed in their phones, occasionally lifting their feet just enough for me to wipe underneath. To them, I wasn’t family. I was a piece of furniture. Something useful, silent, and easily forgotten.

Then I heard the front door open.

My heart stopped beating.

I instinctively lowered my head and scrubbed faster. If the floor wasn’t spotless, Laura would raise her voice again. She always found something to complain about: too much water, not enough shine, the wrong detergent. I braced myself for another humiliation.

“Mom?”

The sound of that voice completely paralyzed me.

I would have recognized him among a thousand. I would have recognized him in the middle of a crowd of thousands of people, even after years of silence.

Slowly, fearing that my eyes might deceive me, I raised my head.

A man stood on the doorstep, dressed in a military uniform, covered in dust after a journey, a heavy backpack on his shoulder. His body was straight, disciplined… but his eyes were tired.

That was my son.

Alex.

My Alex, who had been absent for five long years.