My younger sister, Khloe, and her husband, Julian, were only supposed to stay in the guest suite for a few weeks while they looked for a new apartment.
Somehow, those few weeks had stretched into two whole years.
After Julian shut the door, I made my way around the house toward the backyard.
And there she was.
My mother was kneeling on the scorching stone patio, scrubbing the outdoor kitchen counters beside a bucket filled with soapy water.
She was wearing faded, oversized clothes.
Her hands appeared painfully raw and irritated.
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