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

My knees throbbed with pain, but stopping wasn’t an option. I had learned that long ago. In this house, resting was considered laziness, and laziness was always punished.

The bucket beside me was half-empty, the water already gray. My hands were raw, cracked, and trembling, yet I kept moving. I had cleaned these floors so many times that I could trace every scratch in the wood with my eyes closed.