Miranda paled. The confidence in her face crumbled in a second. She searched for fear in Arturo’s eyes. She searched for doubt. But she found only a wall of steel.

“Are you firing me for one maid?” she screamed hysterically.

“I’m cutting you out of my life because you disgust me,” he declared.

The air became unbreathable. Miranda snatched the folder from the floor, walked towards the main entrance, and before leaving, turned her face away with a grimace of pure hatred.

—You’ll regret it 365 days a year.

The door slammed off the walls of the mansion. It was the end of an era. No one said a word until Leo, the 5-year-old boy, ran to his father and hugged his legs.

“Aren’t you going to yell at Carmelita anymore?” she asked, her big eyes watering.

Arturo swallowed, bent down to pick up his son, and kissed his forehead.

—Never again, my love. Never again.

That same afternoon, Don Arturo took off his luxury watch, rolled up his silk shirt sleeves, and knelt beside the maid. Together, they cleaned every grain of rice, every piece of meat.

The next day, Arturo didn’t show up at the corporate offices. At 8:00 a.m., he drove his truck for two and a half hours deep into Valle de Chalco. When he arrived at the address Carmelita had given him, the reality hit him hard. It was a one-room shack made of corrugated metal and cinder blocks, unplastered. Inside, three small children shared a single worn-out mattress. But what broke Arturo was seeing a makeshift shelf.

There were five recycled plastic containers, carefully labeled with a permanent marker: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Inside were the cold, rationed leftovers that Carmelita managed to salvage.

“Who’s organizing this?” Arturo asked, with a lump in his throat.

“Me, sir,” replied Lupita, Carmelita’s eldest daughter. She was only 8 years old, but had the gaze of a grown woman. “That way we make sure the chicken lasts until Friday and doesn’t spoil.”

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