Jessica let out a triumphant little hum and walked out, grabbing her purse on the way. Daniel hurried after her, but paused at the door to add, “Mom, remember to mop the floors, too. Jessica likes things really clean.”

The sound of the door clicking shut echoed in the empty living room. I stood there looking around the house I had lived in for two years, which was really just a small bedroom they had granted me. On the wall still hung a family portrait I’d brought with me. In the photo, Daniel was just an elementary school kid, his arms wrapped around my neck, grinning from ear to ear.

I walked into the kitchen. The sink was piled high with dirty breakfast dishes. The stovetop was splattered with grease, and the trash can was overflowing. I rolled up my sleeves and started washing the dishes. As the water ran from the faucet, my tears started to fall—hot and silent.

Before I retired, I’d always helped with cooking and cleaning after getting home from work, even though Jessica constantly criticized my food for being too salty or too bland, or complained that I hadn’t mopped the floors well enough. But I never imagined that on the very first day of my retirement, they would so blatantly treat me like an unpaid maid.