I came home earlier than planned and found my wife quietly washing dishes. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for what that moment would uncover.
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Lucía stood at the narrow service kitchen sink, her back slightly hunched, her hands submerged in steaming water that had already turned her skin raw and red. Her dark hair was loosely tied, strands clinging to her damp temples. Over her dress—the pale blue one I had given her on our first anniversary—she wore an old, faded apron that didn’t belong to her.